many books in which men are painted to the life; and to tell us that we do not learn something of mankind from such books, is the same thing as telling us that we have learnt nothing of a face, after we have been examining a portrait of it by the hand of a master. There are many particulars of deportment in our intercourse with society, many pleasant graces, and minute but useful items of behaviour, which, many it is granted, books cannot teach. Nor can they teach human character and the world, in hardly any respect, so thoroughly, alone, as in connection with experience. But it is altogether idle to say, that books can furnish not a drop of that knowledge of character and knowledge of the world, of which so many of them are confessedly full to the brim. There is, however, a certain kind of knowledge of the world; a practical acquaintance with low characters, low tricks, and low vices, scenes of excess, and haunts of profligacy, which books, unless they are of the vilest description, do not pretend to teach. But although this is a kind of knowledge, on which some have the effrontery and folly to plume themselves, the acquisition of it can only be the object of a most pitiable ambition. It almost inevitably degrades the mind and sensualizes the heart. It is a knowledge of the world, in short which makes those, who are adepts in it, worldly and criminal; a knowledge, which every wise man, instead of coveting, will most heartily eschew-evincing his wisdom by choosing to remain in ignorance. This kind of knowledge excepted, then, a knowledge of the world is certainly to be obtained from reading. We do not say that a perfect or intimate knowledge is to be so obtained, but a knowledge of the same sort with that which we obtain of a coast from charts, or of buildings from views, ground-plans, and elevations.
These remarks, few as they are, may be sufficient to show the importance of books to the character of society, and their value to individuals in their connections with society; and we have before spoken of their uses in filling up our solitary hours, and increasing domestic happiness. To man by himself, and to man in his family and social relations, they constitute an inestimable treasure, from which may be drawn continual supplies to meet the demands of our nature, and the calls and exigencies of life.
THE Soul, whose sight all-quickening grace renews,
Takes the resemblance of the good she views,
As diamonds, stripped of their opaque disguise,
Reflect the noonday glory of the skies.
She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend,
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end,
In language warm as all that love inspires,
And in the glow of her intense desires,
Pants to communicate her noble fires.
She sees a world stark blind to what employs
Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys;
Though Wisdom hail them, heedless of her call,
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all:
Herself as weak as her support is strong,
She feels that frailty she denied so long;
And, from a knowledge of her own disease,
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees.
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears,
She still is kind, and still she perseveres;
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme,
'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream,
The danger they discern not, they deny;
Laugh at their only remedy, and die.
But still a soul thus touched can never cease,
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace.
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child:
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased,
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased;
She rather waives than will dispute her right,
And, injured, makes forgiveness her delight.
She was the portrait an apostle drew,
The bright original was one he knew;
Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true.
When one, that holds communion with the skies
Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So when a ship, well freighted with the stores
The sun matures on India's spicy shores,
Has dropped her anchor, and her canvass furled,
In some safe haven of our western world,
"Twere vain inquiry to what port she went,
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.
WITH what a stately and majestic step
That glorious constellation of the north
Treads its eternal circle! going forth
Its princely way amongst the stars in slow
And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail!
I joy to see thee on thy glowing path
Walk, like some stout and girded giant-stern,
Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot
Disdains to loiter on its destined way.
The other tribes forsake their midnight track,
And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave;
But thou dost never close thy burning eye,
Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on,
While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds
Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds.
The near horizon tempts to rest in vain.
Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit
Thy long appointed watch, but, sleepless still,
Dost guard the fixed light of the universe,
And bid the north forever know its place.
Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust,
Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God
Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven,
And echoed from the outer spheres that bound
The illimitable universe, thy voice
Joined the high chorus, from thy radiant orbs
The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise,
Who thus had cast another sparkling gem,
Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd
Of splendors that enrich his firmament.
As thou art now, so wast thou then the same.
Ages have rolled their course, and time grown gray;
The earth has gathered to her womb again,
And yet again, the myriads that were born
Of her uncounted, unremembered tribes.
The seas have changed their beds—the eternal hills
Have stooped with age-the solid continents
Have left their banks and man's imperial works-
The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung
Their haughty honors in the face of heaven,
As if immortal-have been swept away-
Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot.
But time has shed no dimness on thy front,
Nor touched the firmness of thy tread; youth, strength,
And beauty still are thine-as clear, as bright,
As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth,
Beautiful offspring of his curious skill,
To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim
The eternal chorus of eternal Love.
I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light,
Undimmed, unquenched,—just as I see it now,
Has issued from those dazzling points, through years
That go back far into eternity.
Exhaustless flood! forever spent, renewed
Forever! Yea, and those refulgent drops,
Which now descend upon my lifted eye,
Left their far fountain twice three years ago.
While those winged particles, whose speed outstrips
The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth
Compassed its tedious circuit round and round,
And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld
Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom.
So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve!
So vast the void through which their beams descend!
Yea, glorious lamps of God! He may have quenced
Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night
Rest on your spheres; and yet no tidings reach
This distant planet. Messengers still come
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem
To see your lights still burning; while their blaze
But hides the black wreck of extinguished realms,
Where anarchy and darkness long have reigned.
Yet what is this, which to the astonished mind
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought
Confounds? A span, a point, in those domains
Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars
Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight
Embraces all at once; yet each from each
Recedes as far as each of them from earth.
– And every star from every other burns
No less remote. From the profound of heaven,
Untraveled even in thought, keen, piercing rays
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense
Systems and worlds unnumbered. Take the glass,
And search the skies. The opening skies pour down
Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire-
Stars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote,
That their swift beams-the swiftest things that be—
Have traveled centuries on their flight to earth.
Earth, sun, and nearer constellations! what
Are ye, amid this infinite extent
And multitude of God's most infinite works!
And these are suns!-vast, central, living fires,
Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds,
That wait as satellites upon their power,
And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul,
And meditate the wonder! Countless suns
Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds!-
Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice,
And drink the bliss of being from the fount
Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know,
What fongue can utter, all their multitudes!
Thus numberless in numberless abodes!
Known but to thee, blessed Father! Thine they are,
Thy children, and thy care-and none o'erlooked
Of thee! No, not the humblest soul that dwells
Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course
Amid the giant glories of the sky,
Like the mean mote that dances in the beam
Amongst the mirrored lamps, which fling
Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall
None, none escape the kindness of thy care;
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