Boyhood [pp. 538-539]

538 Boyhood. [SEPTEMBER,
have been and ever will be the delight and admiration of mankind. To the earnest, sorrowful
Dante, Poetry was that
divine philosophy
Musical as is Apollo's lute,
which every where to the attentive ear discourses
of Nature and the Divine intelligence*:-with
the ardent, creative Schiller, "true art is not satisfied with a show of Truth. It rears its edifice on
Truth itself, on the solid and deep foundations
of Naturet"-whilst the serene and thoughtful
Goethe-has thus recorded his ideas of art in "the
golden cadences of poesy":
As all Natutre's thousand changes
But one changeless God proclairnm,
So through Art's wide kingdom ranges
One sole meaning still the same.
This is Truth. eternal Reason,
Which from Beauty takes its dress,
And serene through time and season,
Stands for aye in loveliness.t
To mention Homer and Shakspeare, is to call
to mind developments of man and man's character, which, in their depth, assume at times the
appearance of revelation. And yet the wondrous
book of man's nature is but partially unfolded by
them. What need to go beyond it? Why not
pore over its pages? Is there not enough of tenderness, of excitement, of no lty, of tragedyto
be found there? Now grave, no6 gay; thoughtful and trifling; sublime and sensual; passionately struggling with life; sadly wrestling with
doubt; thirsting for knowledge as for hid treasures, yet thereby only increasing sorrow
vainly endeavoring to elucidate the eternal problem of his intellectual existence, the solution
ever escaping him just as he seems qbout to
grasp it; dimly realizing the complicated relations of his social existence, the mysterious action of mind upon mind; with passions, desires,
and feelings that put him on a level with the
beasts that perish; with hopes, fears and aspirations that render him but a little lower than angels; the mysterious link between the spiritual
intelligences which minster round the throne of
the Most High, and the creatures which are of
the earth, earthy: such are some of the traits of
human nature, and are there not materials enough
here upon which to exercise the plastic hand of
Art?
We will, however, dismiss this book by saying,
t Filosofia, mi disse, a chi l'attende,
Nota non pure in una sola parte,
Come Natura lo suo corso prende
Dal Divino Intelletto.
Inferno, Canto xi. 97-100.
+ Remarks on the use of Chorus in Tragedy.
I Carlyle's Translation of Wilhelm Meister.
that as a theological exposition, it is a slanderous
caricature of Catholic christianity: as a moral
treatise, it is licentious and corrupting in the extreme: as a work of art, professedly upholding a
theory, it is a wretched failure. The Reverend
Author and his friends will doubtless meet these
censures by the assertion that the work has
created a sensation and procured notoriety for its
Author. We can only answer, that the same
thing may be said of Judas Iscariot and a host of
kindred spirits and their works.
Lee Town, Va., July, 1849.
BOYHOOD.
Thou hast my better years Thou hast my earlier friends-the good-the kind."
Bryant.
"It was )but childish ignorance,
Though now'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven,
Than when I was a boy."- Thomas Hood.
The bright, bright hours of boyhood! Of times their memories rise
Like clouds of a golden and purple hue,
Over Fancy's radianrt skies.
The bounding p)ulse. and the joyous heart,
The life untouched by pain,
And the whispered tones of a glorious Hope,
All rush to mind again.
The Past! in its fairy realms I live,
Its garden is filled with flowers,
And my spirit inhaleth the incense sweet
That ascends from its roseate bowers.
As the wanderer lone on the desert sands,
Looks back to his home with tears,
So the wanderer,lone on the sands of life,
Hails the light of his early years.
I remember my bosom's first warm thrill,
As a beautifuil form passed by The glossy folds of the waving hair,
And the light of the beaming eye, And I deemned that woman's sweet, fair face,
In its holy thought did seem
Like the angel-features that on me shone,
Each night, in my boyhood's dream.
I remember her whose slightest tone,
Bore with it a magic power,
Whose warm glance beamed on my folded heart,
Like the sun on his favorite flower Till the passionate thoughts that slumbered there,
In a still sleep, deep and long,
Burst forth, like waves from a woodland shade,
To beauty and light and song.
I remember the smile of one who loved,
Her thoughtless and wayward boy,
With a love that mocked all chance or clhange,
And which Death could not derstoy.
[SF,PTEMBER,
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Boyhood.