seeing what is honorable honored. They promote, and call on all sides for the homage which is its due, and are, as it were, intoxicated with the triumph of virtue. He who does not feel the sentiment of respect, has no idea of truly elevated things; and he who is incapable of admiring what is great, is incapable of producing it. True enthusiasm is a mixture of admiration and love, directed to what is good and beautiful: it is an active all-conquering sentiment. In the arts it personifies; in morality it does more, it realizes. There are some minds so blinded by vanity as to pretend to find a proof of their superiority in their inability to admire. There are some men, who affect to disapprove of an enthusiasm they know nothing of; thus transforming their impotence into wisdom. Narrow souls give themselves credit for enthusiasm when they are merely astonished; and ardent imaginations think they have enthusiasm, when they are affected by external brilliancy. Let us beware of a critical spirit, and beware also of an immoderate thirst for success. The former will destroy, and the latter will mislead the generating principle of magnanimity.

The great in soul always have an eminently natural character; they appear to perform great actions with facility, at least their efforts are unrestrained and easy; and, that which is extraordinary to ordinary minds, is common and familiar to them. This is because the principles and germs of magnanimity are in our nature. They are stifled there, only when we paralyze them ourselves; they burst forth when the bonds of personal interest are loosened. Besides, everything is true in the views magnanimity inspires, as well as in the af- fections which promote it. It appreciates the intrinsic value of things: it is filled and penetrated with the love of what is good. The consciousness which it possesses gives it a just security, and an ease and calmness which impart something firm, free, and finished to the action performed.

There is a sublimity in characters as well as in the productions of the mind. It consists in sacrifice, entire sacrifice, to the voice of excellence, whenever the voice of excellence really requires a sacrifice so absolute. This, which makes common souls tremble with horror and affright, is embraced with so pure and true a joy by the great that it seems as if it were to them a reward, rather than a sacrifice. It is less for them a burthen to be borne, than a crown to be seized.

Sacrifice does not always consist in giving one's life; there are some men, who give their lives foolishly. In some circumstances there is more greatness of soul in awaiting death, than there would be in going to meet it; there is sometimes more greatness in consenting to live, and especially in being resigned to survive, than in braving or suffering death. There is a sacrifice, which comprises every moment and the whole of existence, which implies the renouncement of all our habits and inclinations, the sacrifice of our fortune, our plan of life and dearest affections; this is voluntary exile. Also, there are occasions, upon which we are called to brave opinion, the prejudices of our country and our age. The martyr of truth and virtue has more than once been touched by apparent ignominy; he has had to endure the judgment pronounced by vice and absurdity, and applauded by the vulgar. Let wordly heroes be silent and bow before such heroism. The former receive the applause of the world and its glory; but the latter only its injustice and the suffrage of conscience.

The sublime in mental productions is always relative; it requires a concurrence of favorable circumstances, preparation which prevents surprise, art which collects and concentrates in a single and rapid stroke. The sublime in character is absolute, independent, and permanent; it draws everything from its own nature; it has no need of the aid of art; it is not weakened by multiplying itself, and loses nothing by being explained.

The great in soul are not great because they are separated from the generality of men; and if we should all attain to this eminent dignity, it would lose none of its value. What elevates the soul to greatness, is loftiness of purpose, and the generosity of the effort necessary to attain our end.

POWER OF THE SOUL

In investing external Circumstances with the Hue of its own Feelings.
-LIFE in itself, it life to all things gives;
For whatsoe'r it looks on, that thing lives-
Becomes an acting being, ill or good;

And, grateful to its giver, tenders food

For the soul's health, or, suffering change unblest,

Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:

As is the man, e'en so it bears its part,

And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.

Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see, In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree. Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air, Now rests, now stirs, as if a breeze were there Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all! And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall; The double strips of silvery sand unite Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough, Peck not alone; that bird below, as thou, Is busy after food, and happy, too—

They're gone! Both, pleased, away together flew.

And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams;
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky,
And one still, sightless level make the earth,
Like thy dull, lonely, joyless soul,—a dearth.

The rill is tuneless to his ear, who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen amongst the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more-
In nature's calmest hour, he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves-puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world:
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.

Hates he his fellow-men? Why, then, he deems "Tis hate for hate:-as he, so each one seems.

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breastWhich gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.

THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE.

I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm,
That beat against my breast,

Rage on-thou may'st destroy this form,
And lay it low at rest;

But still the spirit, that now brooks
Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted, on its fury looks
With steadfast eye.

I said to Penury's meagre train,
Come on your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures,
Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on-I heed you not;

Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit, which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,

Draws from its own nobility
Its high-born smiles.

I said to Friendship's menaced blow,
Strike deep-my heart shall bear;

Thou canst but add one bitter wo
To those already there;

Yet still the spirit, that sustains
This last severe distress,
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.

I said to Death's uplifted dart,
Aim sure-O, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart-
A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit firm and free,
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,

Shall smiling pass away.

THE LIFE OF GOD IN THE SOUL OF MAN.

COME, brother, turn with me from pining thought,
And all those inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come; send abroad a love for all who live.

Canst guess what deep content, in turn, they give?
Kind wishes and good deeds will render back

More than thou e'er canst sum. Thoul't nothing lack,
But say, 'I'm full!'-Where does the stream begin?
The source of outward joy lies deep within.

E'en let it flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow men.
Should'st thou be sad,

And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near,
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,
That now, upon the water, dances, now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The fay that wrought so beautiful a spell?
In thine own bosom, brother, didst thou say?
Then cherish as thine own so good a fay..