Imatges de pÓgina

And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence. Lord, on thee
Eternity had its foundation: all

Sprang forth from thee of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin; all life, all beauty thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious! great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround;
Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath.
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death.

As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee; And, as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the păgeantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own thy power, accomplish thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light?
A glorious company of golden streams?
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright?

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in thee is lost:—
What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee?

And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance, weighed

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Against thy greatness; is a cipher brought
Against infinity! O, what am I, then?—Nought!

Nought! But the effluence of thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;
Yes; in my spirit doth thy spirit shine,

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Nought! Yet I live, and on hope's pinions fly,
Eager, towards thy presence; for in thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of thy divinity.
I am, O God; and surely thou must be!

Thou art! directing, guiding all, thou art!

Direct my understanding, then, to thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart
Though but an atom 'midst immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand!

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit land!

The chain of being is complete in me;
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is spirit-Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!
A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god!

Whence came I here, and how so marvellously Constructed and conceived? Unknown! This clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be!

Creator, yes! thy wisdom and thy word
Created me! Thou Source of life and good!
Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring

O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its Source—to thee—its Author, there.

O, thoughts ineffable! O, visions blest!

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee, Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to thy Deity.

God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;

Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good;
'Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.



u:- cub, tub, such, much, son, come, some; - punish, study, comfort, combat ; — above, among, enough.

Feeling and Sentiment.


I WISH to say a few words upon two very different modifications of that feeling of sympathy for one another, both in joy and sorrow, which is common to the whole human race. By sentiment, I mean to express the abstract of that idea of which sentimental is the concrete. It is keenly and

vividly alive to whatever afflicts humanity, and if, by an act of volition, it could convert sorrow into joy, the exercise of this power would turn this world into a Paradise; but it shrinks from the toil, the privations, and the sacrifices, which must be endured long after the thrilling impulse of charity has subsided, by him who would be a faithful laborer in the noble cause of humanity. It rather selects those forms of distress which have somewhat of a romantic beauty and interest, which are gratifying to the taste, the contemplation of which may throw him into that luxurious and dream-like melancholy which unnerves the soul, and makes it unfit for efficient action; but it recoils from the smoke, the dirt, the coarse language, and the uncouth manners, which, in this world of stern realities, usually attend upon extreme want.

Feeling, on the other hand, cares for none of these things. It flies to the relief of distress, in however offensive a shape it may appear. Its sensibilities are less keen, and its impulses less strong, than those of Sentiment, but its good deeds are far more numerous and valuable. It relieves distress, partly from a sense of duty, and partly from the exquisite gratification which it derives from so doing. It is entirely independent of taste; it is enough for it to know that there is a human being that can, by its efforts, be made happier; and it makes no difference how disagreeable the suffering individual may be, or how distasteful the situation in which he is placed.

There is, also, another difference between them. The man of sentiment may have his sensibilities called forth by a tale of suffering, which the sober man of feeling listens to with cold indifference, because he knows the distress to be the result of indolence or vice; while, if it be undeserved, and the effect of uncontrollable circumstances, he will give diligent heed to it, though it be of so common-place and every-day a nature, as not to awaken the attention of the other at all. Sentiment is more vivid in its emotions, Feeling more last

ing. Sentiment is often eloquent where Feeling is silent ; Sentiment often weeps where Feeling appears unmoved. But by the next hour, Sentiment will have forgotten all about it, while Feeling is busily occupied in contriving ways and means for speedy and effectual relief.

Sentiment is eloquent at all public charitable meetings, where Feeling is a quiet listener; while Feeling is seen in the cold garrets and damp cellars, where some poor sufferer is left alone with his God to die, and where Sentiment, with its delicate nerves, would faint with horror. Sentiment will head a subscription-paper with a glowing appeal in behalf of the distressed object; but Feeling will go about from house to house to solicit contributions. Sentiment talks beautifully on the duties of charity, benevolence, and sympathy for misfortune; but Feeling practises them. Sentiment will weep with those that mourn; but Feeling comforts them.

There are two men of my acquaintance, of nearly the same age, property, and standing in society, one of whom is a man of feeling and the other a man of sentiment. Sentiment is rather a more gifted man than Feeling; writes and talks well; and on no subject does he write or speak so often and so well, as on the duty of doing good to each other, Feeling never wrote a paragraph in the newspapers, nor spoke where ten people could hear him; but there is not a cellar or a garret in Broad Street which he has not visited; and there are hundreds of people that pray for him every day of their lives. Sentiment is the admiration of his acquaintances; Feeling, the delight of his friends.

No better illustration can be given of the difference between them, than was shown in their conduct on one particular occasion. A common friend of theirs had died suddenly, under circumstances of peculiar affliction, leaving a large family nearly destitute. Sentiment heard of his death as he was going to an evening party, where he spoke of his departed friend, and of his irreparable loss to his widow and children, in such a way as to bring tears

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