The mental Crisus goeth forth, rejoicing in his wealth; Keen and clear perception gloweth on his forehead like a

sunbeam,

He rendeth inen at a glance, and mists roll away before him; The wise have set him as their captain, the foolish are re

buked at his presence,

The excellent bless him with their prayers, and the wicked praise him by their curses;

His voice, mighty in operation, stirreth up the world as a trumpet,

And kings account it honor to be numbered of his friends.

RARE is the whiness of Authorship: I justify mine office; Albeit fincies w ak as mine credit not the calling.

For it addeth i mortality to dying facts, that are ready to vanish aw y,

Embalming as

amber the poor insects of an hour; Shedding upon stocks and stones the tender light of interest, Aud illumining dark places of the earth, with radiance of classic lustre.

It hath power to make past things present, and availeth for the present in the future,

Delivering thoughts, and words, and deeds, from the outer darkness of oblivion:

Where are the sages and the heroes, giants of old time?— Where are the mighty kings that reigned before Agamem

non ?~

Alas, they lie anwept, unhonored, hidden in the midnight: Alas, for they used unchiolited: the meiorad perisued with them.

Where are the robles of Nineveh, and mitred rulers of Babylon ?

Where are the lords of Edom, and the royal pontiffs of Tho bais ?

The golden Strap, and the Tetrarch,-the Hun, and the Druid, and the Ceit?

The merchant princes of Phoenicia, and the minds that fash

ioned Elephanta?

Alas, for the poet hath forgotten them; and lo! they are outcasts of Memory;

Alas that they are withered leaves, sapless and fallen from the chaplet of fame.

Speak, Etruria, whose bones be these, entombed with costly

care,

Tell out, Herculaneum, the titles that have sounded in those thy palaces,

Lycian Xanthus, thy citadels are mute, and the honor of their architects hath died;

Copan and Palenque, dreamy ruins in the West, the forest hath swallowed up your sculptures; (5)

Syracuse, how silent of the past!-Carthage, thou art blotted from remembrance!

Egypt, wondrous shores, ye are buried in the sandhills of forgetfulness!

Alas,-for in your glorious youth, Time himself was young, And none durst wrestle with that Angel, iron-sinewed bride

groom of Space;

So he flew by, strong upon the wing, nor dropped one failing feather,

Wherewith some hoary scribe might register their honor and

renown.

Beyond the broad Atlantic, in the regions of the setting sun, Ask of the plume-crowned Incas, that ruled in old Peru,Ask of grand Caziques, and priests of the pyramids in Mex

ico,

Ask of a thousand painted tribes, high nobility of Nature, Who, once, could roam their own Elysian plains, free, gene

rous, and happy,

Who, now, degraded and in exile, having sold their fatherland for naught,

Sink and are extinguished in the western seas, even as the sun they follow,

Where is the record of their deeds, their prowess worthy of

Achilles,

Nestor's wisdom, the chivalry of Manlius, the native eloquence of Cicero,

The skill of Xenophon, the spirit of Alcib.ades, the firmness of a Maccabæan mother,

Brotherly love that Antigone might envy, the honor and the fortitude of Regulus ?

Alas! their glory and their praise have vanished like a summer cloud:

Alas! that they are dead indeed; they are not written down in the Book of the living.

HIGH is the privilege of Authorship: I purify mine office; Albeit earthly stains pollute it in my hands.

For it is to the world a teacher and a guide, Mentor of that gay Telemachus;

Warning, comforting, and helping,-a lover and friend of

Man.

Heaven's almoner, Earth's health, patient minister of goodness,

With kind and zealous pen, the wise religious blesseth: Nature's worshipper, and neophyte of grace, rich in tender sympathies,

With kindled soul and flashing eye the poet poureth out his heartful:

Priest of truth, champion of innocence, warder of the gates

of praise,

Carefully with sifting search laboreth the pale historian: Error's enemy and acolyte of science, firm in sober argument, The calm philosopher marshalleth his facts, noting on his page their principles.

These pour mercies upon men; and others little less in honor,

By cheerful wit and graphic tale, refreshening the harassed

spirit.

But, there be other some beside, buyers and sellers in the

temple,

Who shame their high vocation, greedy of inglorious gain; There be, who, fabricating books, heed of them meanly as of merchandise;

And seek nor use, nor truth, nor fame, but sell their minds for lucre;

O false brethren! ye wot indeed the labor, but are witless of the love;

O lying prophets, chilled in soul, nnquickened by the life of inspiration!—

And there be, who, frivolous and vain, seek to make others

foolish,

Snaring Youth by loose sweet song, and Age by selfish maxim;

Cleverly heartless, and wittily profane, they swell the river of corruption :

Brilliant satellites of sin,-my soul be not found among their company.

And there be who, haters of religion, toil to prove it priest

craft,

Owning none other aim nor hope, but to confound the good: Woe unto them! for their works shall live; yea to their

utter condemnation;

Woe! for their own handwriting shall testify against them for ever.

PURE is the happiness of Authorship: I glorify mine office; Albeit lightly having sipped the cup of its lower pleasures. For it is to feel with a father's heart, when he yearneth on the child of his affections;

To rejoice in a man's own miniature world, gladdened by its rare arrangement.

The poem, is it not a fabric of mind? we love what we create: That choice and musical order,-how pleasant is the toil of

composition!

Yea, when the volume of the universe was blazcned out in

beauty by its Author,

God was glad, and blessed his work; for it was very good. And shall not the image of his Maker be happy in his own mind's doing,

Looking on the structure he hath reared, gratefully with sweet complacence ?

Shall not the Minerva of his brain, panoplied and perfect in proportions,

Gladden the soul and give light unto the eyes of him the travailing parent?

Go to the sculptor and ask him of his dreams, wherefore are his nights so moonlit ?

Angel faces, and beautiful shapes, fascinate the pale Pygmalion:

Go to the painter and trace his reveries,-wherefore are his

Choice design and skilful coloring charm the flitting hours of Parrhasius:

Even so, walking in his buoyancy, intoxicate with fairy fancies,

The young enthusiast of authorship goeth on his way re

joicing:

Behold, he is gallantly attended; legions of thrilling

thoughts

Throng about the standard of his mind, and call his Will their captain;

Behold, his court is as a monarch's; ideas, and grand imaginations

Swell, with gorgeous cavalcade, the splendour of his Spiritual State;

Behold, he is delicately served; for oftentimes, in solitary

calmness,

Some mental fair Egeria smileth on her Numa's worship; Behold, he is happy; there is gladness in his eye, and his heart is a sealed fountain,