And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there;
There are who still remember how he bore
Upward his daring pinions, till the air

Seemed living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.

He will not sleep for ever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labors; now, even now,
As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,
The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams,
His wakened spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take-
They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way,
When he forgot the contest-shall they take,
Now he renews the race, the victor's bay?
Still let them strive-when he collects his might,
He will assert his right.

The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,

Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.

Genius Waking.—PERCIVAL.

SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound thee-
Where is now thy fire?

Feebler wings are gathering round thee—
Shall they hover higher?
Can no power, no spell, recall thee

From inglorious dreams?
O, could glory so appal thee,

With his burning beams!

Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;

With a proud and sure dominion,
Thou didst upward bear.

Like the herald, winged with lightning,
From the Olympian throne,

Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillared props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

O, what rare and heavenly brightness
Flowed around thy plumes,

As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Lights a cavern's glooms!

Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,

Like a shape of light,

With serene and placid motion,

Thou wert dazzling bright.

From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
But the tempest's gush.

Up again undaunted soaring,

Thou didst pierce the cloud,

When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.

Where is now that restless longing
After higher things?

Come they not, like visions, thronging
On their airy wings?

Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?

Surely danger cannot daunt thee

From a heaven like this.

But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Hangs thy ruffled wing;

Like a dove in winter shivering,

Or a feebler thing.

Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?

Where is now thy heart's devotion?

Where thy spirit's light?

Hark! his rustling plumage gathers

Closer to his side,

Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide.

Now his nodding beak is steady

Wide his burning eye

Now his opening wings are ready,

And his aim-how high!

Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Now is stretched for flight-
Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly,
And their flash-how bright!
Onward-onward over mountains,
Through the rock and storm,

Now, like sunset over fountains,
Flits his glancing form.

Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee-
Thou hast reached thy heaven-
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee
Of the glory given.

With a bold, a fearless pinion,

On thy starry road,

None, to fame's supreme dominion,
Mightier ever trode.

The Spirit of Poetry.-LONGFELLOW.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows-
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade,
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind.

And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure bright air
Their tops the green trees lift.

-Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods-the golden sun-
The flowers the leaves-the river on its way-
Blue skies and silve: clouds-and gentle winds—
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes.
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in--
Mountain-and shattered cliff-and sunny vale-
The distant lake-fountains-and mighty trees-
In many a lazy syllable repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill

The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,

My busy fancy oft imbodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty

That dwell in nature-of the heavenly forms

We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

And when it wears the blue of May, was hung,
And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hair
Was as the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushed all the richness of an autumn sky,

With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath-
It was so like the gentle air of spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it was a joy

To have it round us-and her silver voice

Was the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

Incomprehensibility of God.*-MISS ELIZABETH TOWNSEND.

"I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him."

WHERE art thou?-THOU! Source and Support of all
That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,
Unfelt, unknown,-alas! unknowable!

I look abroad among thy works-the sky,

Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,-
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,—

And speaking winds,-and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,

The omnipresent and deep-breathing air

*To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth✔ volume of the Unitarian Miscellany, would repay us for the toil of looking through whole libraries. It is equal in grandeur to the celebrated production of Bryant-" Thanatopsis ; nor will it suffer by a comparison with the most sublime pieces either of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. The latter (with a feeling akin to the elevated inspiration which animates these noble lines) has said,

"For never guiltless may I speak of Him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

I praise Him, and with Faith, that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,
A sinful and most miserable man."

ED.