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lectual sovereign, whose spiritual part at least is inseparably interwoven with things eternal.

Each step we take in this mighty temple of varied organisms, at the head of which, and as the crowning piece, man, the noblest of created beings, has been placed, suggests new inquiries, which unanswered turn back upon the startled imagination, arousing the dormant faculties of the soul to contemplations of a higher order. The strain of music from the lyre of science flows on, rich and sweet, full and harmonious, but never reaches a close ; no cadence is heard with which the intellectual ear can feel satisfied. ... The idea of some closing strain seems to lurk among our own thoughts, waiting to be articulated in the notes which flow from the knowledge of external nature. The idea of something ultimate in our philosophical researches, something in which the mind can acquiesce, and which will leave us no further questions to ask of whence, and why, and by what power, seems as if it belonged to us; as if we could not have it withheld from us by any imperfection or incompleteness in the actual performance of science. What is the meaning of this conviction? What is the reality thus anticipated ? Whither does the development of this idea conduct us ?'

Beyond the horizon that binds our vision, and there only, will these questions, and others of a similar character, be satisfactorily answered. Thither with anxious eyes and trembling steps, with deeper interest and increasing humility and reverence, we advance. Confidently expecting an explanation of these mysteries, and a more perfect revelation of the glories, which are seen now through an obscured and imimperfect vision only, when the material veil is removed from the grand, still mirror of eternity.


In all clouds that surrou calm and holy.

the soul there are angel faces, and we should see them, if we were


THERE's naught more loudly than the parched-up earth

Bespeaks the need of interposing PoweR;

'Tis He alone can send the blessed shower,
And plenty spread where threatened late the dearth.
Of clouds, then, mortal ! learn the priceless worth,

And murmur not, however thick they lower,
How dark soe'er they make the present hour.

The cloud so small the fingers e'en could girth,

Grew larger as the prophet prayed, and brought
God's richest smile, for years, to Israel given:

Then pray for clouds that guard the soul from drought,
Large clouds, whose grief-flood shows a spirit riven ;

The thickest clouds with greatest good are fraught

They 're but the faces of the host of heaven. Buffalo, N. Y., Sept., 1850.



Tak following curious poem was found among the neglected manuscripts of a young physician, who has long abandoned the poetic art for more practical, and certainly more profitable, pursuits. It appears to us to embody much of the felicity of diction and wild beauty of GOETER'S 'Bride of Corinth;' at least it is the nearest English approximation to that poem which we know of.


In the ages which we call benighted,

And the German's old and wondrous land,
In an upmost story dimly lighted,
By a long and narrow wooden stand,

Darkly stained with blood,

The Dissector stood,
Held a purpled knife within his hand.


'T was late, and all his comrades had departed,

Left him at his table there alone;
On the dreamy student, heavy-hearted,
Midnight stars in silent wonder shone;

From his eyes there came

Flashes, as of flame,
Born of sorrows to the world unknown.


To the church-yard in the moonlit meadow

Earthly hopes and earthly joys were borne ;
Stolen to the land of dream and shadow
From his bleeding heart, her heart was torn ;

She his love allowed,

But her kinsmen proud
Had repulsed his gentle suit with scorn.


Droop'd the lady with her crushed devotion,

Nourished and concealed the fatal flame,
When her heart surceased its sacred motion,
Sister to the angels she became ;

He, oppressed with grief,

Sought a poor relief
In his studies of the human frame.


Quietly the youth a corpse uncovered,

By the sunken drapery revealed ;
Awful thoughts around him never hovered
Near the dead; his heart had long been steeled :

Starting with a thrill,

Stood he then as still
As a brook by winter winds congealed.


Lay before him there a beauteous maiden,

(High born damsel,) stolen from the tomb, Dead; but Death had not her features laden With his characters of fearful gloom :

On her roseate face

Lingered every trace
Of her girldhood's gentleness and bloom.


To her breast the hair hung down in tresses,

Curling like the tendrils of the vine ;
Ripe her lip was for the sweet caresses,
Swoll'n with love, and red as if with wine :

Of the purest gold

And the lightest mould,
Finger-rings threw out their fairy shine.


Was the body and the chamber haunted ?

For the youth did not remove his gaze: Like a marble shaft he stood enchanted, And his eyes had frenzy in their blaze :

The Dissector's room

Lost to him its gloom -
Was surrounded wi a golden haze.


Hung with damask curtains seemed the windows;

O'er the mantel ticked the household chime; One small flame flared up from out the cinders; Like a bed whereto a bride might climb

Seemed his table, high

And broad unto his eye,
Decked with pillows of the olden time.


Lovingly upon the snowy linen

Lay the form of Beauty he beheld: Mouth and eyes were sparkling, soft, and winning; In her breast the maiden fervor swelled :

Manliest virtues melt;

He enamored felt;
To her heart his throbbing heart impelled.


'Art thou, lost one, come from blissful Eden

To assuage my bosom's burning pain ? Nevermore, o rare and radiant maiden! Shall the fates dispart our souls again!

Heaven will not divide

Bridegroom from his bride:
Angels are singing now our marriage strain.'


On her neck he fell oppressed and panting;

Blent his lip in madness with her own:
Round his form she locked her arms enchanting;
Cold her arms as chiseled out of stone:

Drooped his trembling head,

Sight and hearing fled,
And his soul dissolved in joys unknown.


When the sun threw from his burning quiver

Ray-like arrows, beaming far and wide,
Stark and cold lay out the pallid lover,
Silent at the demon-maiden's side:

Death was on his brow,

Heaven had heard his vow,
And he was not parted from his bride.



MY DEAR MR. KNICKERBOCKER: It was Horace Walpole, I think, who remarked, that the love of music is the only earthly passion in which we can hope to be indulged in heaven. And it is a curious fact, that she, the eldest of the Arts, having been the beloved of angels from the beginning, seems in all cases to have taken precedence of the sisterhood, as the aid and coadjutor of man in his progress from barbarism to civilization. It is said, no race has yet been found so brutish and debased as to be entirely without religion ; some shadow or type of religious feeling; some worship or reverence for the supernatural, be it God or devil; and I have yet to hear of the discovery of any tribe so dull and stupid as to be without some means of showing that the natural man has an ear .attuned to the concord of sweet sounds.' Indeed the two seem to have a natural and almost individual connection. Depending neither upon form, color nor any tangible quality; depending little

the education of the senses as a means for its enjoyment, Music is ever the gentle and winning handmaiden of religion. Both speak to us as it were from within, and while the most unlettered christian, ignorant alike of the power it exercises and the artistic means by which it is produced, chants forth his simple melody with a fervor and pathos alike purifying and exalting on the one hand, we behold on the other a Beethoven, well nigh dead to outward sense, deaf and almost blind, still pouring forth his soul in the composition of sublime harmonies, which at once transport us by the depth and purity of their devotion. But it is not over the religious sensibilities alone that music exercises an important influence. From the days of Tubal Cain to the present, from her felicity in expressing all the delicate and tender emotions of the heart, of giving voice and utterance to the aspirations of hope, the sighings of absence, the triumphs of success or the dull moodiness of despair, she has been also the constant companion and the handmaiden of Love, and it is in this connection that I have ventured to submit to you the following leaves.


My brother Mac, a harum-scarum wild boy of nineteen, who was for some years resident with the Winnebagoes, among other Indian curiosities, for the transmission of which he had a standing order, has sent me a very rude and primitive-looking musical instrument, which he chooses to dignify with the name of flute, but which bears about as much resemblance to that dignified and refined pet of the orchestra as it does to a trombone. He informs me that it bore an important part in a ttle love tragedy which occured not many years since in nat tribe; that it belonged to a young brave; but I shall let Mac tell you the story himself. Thus he writes :

Young Miastonemoh, (the Killer of Eagles,) was a brave of no ordinary pretension or ability. Uniting great beauty and manliness of person with remarkable agility and strength, he at once excited the ad. miration, the envy and the emulation of his fellows. To his skill and address was committed the training of the fiercest of the wild horses of the prairies. No eye was so calm as his, no arm so nervous and no blade so keen in the deadly combat with the dreaded grisly-bear; while to his success in that most difficult of feats, the killing of the bald eagle, the name he bore was sufficient testimony. Modest and gentle in his ways, accomplished in all that captivates an Indian maiden's heart; (and the heart of the Indian girl is quickly won by kindness of manner, by that subdued gentleness, which seems to yield while it commands ;) and rich moreover in beaver skins and buffalo marrow, you may be sure dark eyes flashed warmly upon the young brave as he passed, and many a dusky bosom throbbed responsive to his step. The Indian, if any way noticeable, either for bravery and address, or for an accumulation of more tangible wealth, generally marries early, and Miastonemoh had no very decided objections to a wife. But in looking around his tribe for one 'whose smiles should warm his wigwam like the sunlight,' he could see neither beauty nor worth in fair Liastonoluh, (Hair of the Sunbeams,) the daughter of a pale-face, stolen many years before, when a child, by a party of the tribe, while on a raid against the whites, south of the Sheboygan. She had now seen seventeen summers, was tall for her years, and had all that native grace of look and bearing which result from perfect freedom of will and dress. Her complexion, which in childhood had been pure as the lily, was now, from long exposure to the smoke of the cabin and the sun of the prairies, changed to a clear and rosy olive, while her hair, originally of the purest auburn, had been tinged, until it resembled, more than any thing else, the last golden rays of the setting sun; a variation from the regular glossy black of the Indians so remarkable as to warrant the tribe in their aboriginal notions of nomenclature, in giving her a name expressive of the fact. Thus far, either from her child-like fairness and delicacy, or from some capricious freak on the

any save the

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