And it is very terrible! The roar—
Ascendeth unto heaven, and thunders back, Like the response of demons,-from the black Rifts-of the hanging tempests,-yawning o'er
The wild waves-in their torment. Hark!—the cry-
Of the strong man—in his peril, piercing through
The uproar of the waters--and the sky,
As the rent bark-one moment-rides to view-
On the tall billows,-with the thunder-cloud
Closing around,—above her, like a shroud.
He stood upon the reeling deck,-His form
Made visible-by the lightning, and His brow
Pale, and uncovered to the rushing storm,
Told of a triumph-man-may never know,-
Power-underived—and mighty,-"Peace,-be still!”
The great waves-heard Him,—and the storm's loud tone
Went moaning—into silence,—at His will;
And the thick clouds,-where yet the lightning shone,
And slept the latent thunder, rolled away
Until no trace of tempest-lurked behind,
Changing,-upon the pinions of the wind,
To stormless wanderers,-beautiful—and gay.
Dread Ruler of the tempest! thou-before
Whose presence-boweth the uprisen storm,—
To whom the waves do homage-round the shore
Of many an island's empire!-if the form
Of frail dust-beneath thine eye may claim
Thy Infinite regard,—oh, breathe upon
The storm-and darkness—of man's soul—the same
Quiet-and peace-and humbleness which came
O'er the roused waters, where thy voice had gone,-
A minister of power,-to conquer-in thy name.
"STILL WITH THEE." MRS. H. B. STOWE.
Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh;
When the bird waketh and the shadows flee;
Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight,
Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with thee.
Alone with thee amid the mystic shadows,
The solemn hush of nature newly born;
Alone with thee in breathless adoration,
In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.
As in the dawning, o'er the breathless ocean,
The image of the morning star doth rest,
So in this stillness thou beholdest only
Thine image in the waters of my breast.
When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,
Its closing eye looks up to thee in prayer;
Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading:
But sweeter still to wake, and find thee there.
So shall it be at last in that bright morning
When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee.
Oh, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,
Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with thee!
WHO BY SEARCHING CAN FIND OUT GOD? E. SCUDDER.
I can not find thee. Still on restless pinion
My spirit beats the void where thou dost dwell.
I wander lost through all thy vast dominion,
And shrink beneath thy light ineffable.
I can not find thee. Even when most adoring,
Before thy throne I bend in lowliest prayer,
Beyond these bounds of thought my thought upsoaring,
From furthest quest comes back,-thou art not there.
Yet high above the limits of my seeing,
And folded far within the inmost heart,
And deep below the deeps of conscious being,
Thy splendor shineth: there, O God! thou art.
I can not lose thee. Still in thee abiding,
The end is clear, how wide soe'er I roam;
The law that holds the worlds my steps is guiding,
And I must rest at last in thee, my home.
THE LEPER. N. P. WILLIS.
"Room-for the leper! room!" And as he came
The cry passed on-" Room for the leper! room!"
And aside they stood-
Matron-and child-and pitiless manhood,-all
Who met him on his way, and let him pass.
And onward-through the open gate he came,
A leper, with the ashes—on his brow,
Sackcloth-about his loins, and on his lip
A covering,-stepping painfully—and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart-is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!"
'T was now the first
Of the Judean autumn,—and the leaves,
Whose shadows-lay so still-upon his path,
Had put their beauty forth-beneath the eye
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young
And eminently beautiful,-and life
Mantled-in eloquent fullness-on his lip,
And sparkled-in his glance; and in his mien-
There was a gracious pride-that every eye
Followed with benisons; and this-was he!
With the soft airs of summer-there had come
A torpor on his frame,—which not the speed
Of his best barb,-nor music,-nor the blast
Of the bold huntsman's horn,-nor aught—that stirs
The spirit-to its bent,-might drive away.
The blood-beat not as wont-within his veins;
Dimness-crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth
Fettered his limbs-like palsy, and his mien,
(With all its loftiness,) seemed struck with eld.
Even his voice was changed-a languid moan
Taking the place of the clear silver key;
And brain-and sense grew faint, as if the light-
And very air—were steeped in sluggishness.
He strove with it-a while, as manhood-will,
Ever too proud-for weakness,—till the rein—
Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise
The arrowy jereed,—like an aspen,—shook.
Day-after day-he lay-as if asleep:
His skin-grew dry-and bloodless, and white scales,
(Circled with livid purple,)—covered him,
-And Helon-was a leper!
And Helon knelt-beside a stagnant pool-
In the lone wilderness,—and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy,—and touched
The loathsome water-to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blest-to die!
Footsteps approached,—and, with no strength to flee,—
He drew the covering-closer on his lip,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth-shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth-till they should pass.
Nearer the Stranger came,-and-bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form,-pronounced his name—
"Helon!" The voice-was like the master-tone-
Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease-awoke,
And-for a moment-beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales-with a restoring thrill.
"Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse,-
And rose-and stood before Him.
He looked on Helon-earnestly—a while,—
As if his heart were moved,-and-(stooping down)
He took a little water in his hand,
And laid it on his brow,-and said,-"Be clean !"
And lo! the scales fell from him,—and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms-grew moist, and on his brow-
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy-was cleansed,-and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet,—and worshiped him.
IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. ADDISON.
It must be so,-Plato, thou reasonest well!—
Else-whence the pleasing hope,—this fond desire,—
This longing-after immortality?
Or whence-this secret dread, and inward horror,
of falling into naught? Why-shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles—at destruction?
'Tis the divinity-that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself—that points out a hereafter,
And intimates eternity-to man.
ETERNITY! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety—of untried being,
Through what new scenes—and changes-must we pass?
The wide,—the unbounded prospect, lies before me;
But shadows,-clouds,—and darkness-rest upon it.
Here-will I hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Through all her works,) He—must delight in virtue;
And that which He delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world-was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures. This-must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.]
Thus—am I doubly armed:—my death—and life,
My bane-and antidote-are both before me;-
This in a moment-brings me to an end;
But this informs me-I shall never die.
The soul, (secured in her existence,) smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars-shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim-with age, and nature-sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish-in immortal youth,
Unhurt-amidst the wars of elements,
The wrecks-of matter -and the crush-of worlds.
GESTURE AND DEPORTMENT-ARBITRARY RULES-PANTOMIME-NECESSITY OF GESTURE-FAULTS OF ORATORS-GRACE AND DIGNITY-STUDY OF THE PASSIONS-OBSERVATIONS OF NATURE-SELECTIONS.
Gesture and deportment, or the position and movement of the body and limbs, under the influence of changing mental condition, are so multiform that we despair of doing them justice in a short essay; nor can we with any degree of accuracy give rules which will be a safe guide, and by which persons may acquire graceful and at the same time natural attitudes and movements of the body.
There have been elaborate directions given by authors, copiously illustrated by engravings and characters, indicating the right and left, up and down movements of the arms, etc., which may serve as a possible guide to students in avoiding angular and ungraceful gestures. But the great defect has been in giving arbitrary rules without directing attention to the cause that prompts gesticulation, and without defining the part it is to take in adding force and beauty to declamation.
The strongly accented and emphatic force, and the great modulating capacity of our language, gives us a range and copiousness of expression that much lessens the need of the pantomimic action of the limbs, figure, and face which other languages seem to require. Yet deportment and gesture must be included as a part of delivery, and certainly belongs to rhetorical expression. We moderns set too small an estimate on their effective assistance in the pronunciations of oratory, to which the ancient Greeks and Romans attached so much importance. The rhetoricians of those days must have taught the science of gesture as well as of vocality: indeed they were of divided opinion which should take the preference in giving impressive effect. Quintilian's saying is often quoted, that "it is not of so much moment what our compositions are as how they are pronounced;" while Cicero, Pericles, Demosthenes, Aristotle, and other renowned orators were of the same opinion.
We must admit that if we were thrown among a race of people, without any knowledge of their vernacular, the pantomimic language
|