THE CHANGE WHICH OCCURRED IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
For, indeed, a change was coming upon the world, the meaning and direction of which even still is hidden from us, a change from era to era. The paths trodden by the footsteps of ages were taken up; old things were passing away, and the faith and the life of ten centuries were dissolving like a dream. Chivalry was dying; the abbey and the castle were soon together to crumble into ruins; and all the forms, desires, beliefs, convictions of the old world were passing away, never to return. A new continent had risen up beyond the western sea. The floor of heaven, inlaid with stars, had sunk back into an infinite abyss of unmeasurable space; and the firm earth itself, unfixed from its foundation, was seen to be but a small atom in the awful vastness of the uniIn the fabric of habit in which they had so laboriously built for themselves, mankind were to remain no longer.
And now it is all gone-like an unsubstantial pageant faded; and between us and the old English there lies a gulf of mystery which the prose of the historian will never adequately bridge. They cannot come to us, and our imagination can but feebly penetrate to them. Only among the aisles of the cathedral, only as we gaze upon their silent figures sleeping on their tombs, some faint conceptions float before us of what these men were when they were alive; and perhaps in the sound of church bells, that peculiar creation of medieval age, which falls upon the ear like the echo of a vanished world.
Which Love inhabits and illumes! Your rays have fallen but coldly on me: One far less fond, perchance, had won ye!
[PIERRE DE RONSARD, an early French poet (1524-1585) was pronounced by De Thou the most accomplished poet since Horace. This was an extravagant judgment, as his numerous works abound in affectations, and departure from the simplicity of nature. We give one favorable specimen, extracted from Ronsard's poem on Mary Queen of Scots.]
ALL beauty, granted as a boon to earth, That is, has been, or ever can have birth, Compared to hers, is void, and Nature's care Ne'er formed a creature so divinely fair.
In spring amidst the lilies she was born, And purer tints her peerless face adorn; And though Adonis' blood the rose may paint, Beside her bloom the rose's hues are faint:
With all his richest store Love decked her eyes. The Graces each, those daughters of the skies, Strove which should make her to the world most dear,
And to attend her, left their native sphere.
Wherever destiny her path may lead, Fresh-springing flowers will bloom beneath her tread,
All nature will rejoice, the waves be bright, The tempest check its fury at her sight, The sea be calm: her beauty to behold, The sun shall crown her with his rays of gold,— Unless he fears, should he approach her throne, Her majesty should quite eclipse his own.
TO DIANE DE POITIERS. [CLEMENT MAROT, a famous French poet, born in 1505, died in 1544. He had much wit and fancy, with an epigrammatic style.]
FAREWELL! since vain is all my care, Far, in some desert rude, I'll hide my weakness, my despair; And, 'midst my solitude,
I'll pray, that, should another move thee, He may as fondly, truly love thee.
Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven! Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms! Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given,
[The Rev. JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glasgow in 1765. He studied the law, and practised at the Scottish bar for several years, but afterwards took orders in the Church of England, aud died on the 14th of September, 1811. The works of Grahame consist of "Mary, Queen of Scotland," (1800); "The Sabbath," (1801), “Sabbath Walks," (1805), "Biblical Pictures,"" The Birds of Scolland," (1806), and" British Georgies," (1809), all in blank verse.]
How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear-the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy of giving thanks to God-not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air pure from the city's smoke; While wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes-yet fears presumption in the hope- To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends. But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn the knell, from yc nder ancient pile, Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe: Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground; The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new made grave, well pleased; These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of Gcd-these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise They enter in; a placid stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, Opens the book, and reverentially The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes, Then swells into a diapason full;
The people rising sing, “ with harp, with harp, And voice of psalms;" harmoniously attuned The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles, At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne, The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy! In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill, Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry. Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son; Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold, And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed, With thyme sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned With meikle care beneath the lowly roof, Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps, Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands Returning homeward from the house of prayer. In peace they home resort. Oh, blissful days! When all men worship God as conscience wills. Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew, A virtuous race to godliness devote.
A SUMMER SABBATH WALK. Delightful is this loneliness; it calms My heart: pleasant the cool beneath these elms That throw across the stream a moveless shade. Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks; How peaceful every sound!-the ringdove's plaint, Moaned from the forest's gloomiest retreat, While every other woodland lay is mute, Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear— The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp-the buzz, Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,
That soon as loosed booms with full twang away- The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal Scared from the shallows by my passing tread. Dimpling the water glides, with here and there A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout Watches his time to spring; or from above, Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot! He, giddy insect, from his native leaf (Where safe and happily he might have lurked), Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, Forgetful of his origin, and worse, Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream, And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, Buoyant he flutters but a little while, Mistakes the inverted image of the sky For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. Again I turn me to the hill, and trace The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned; Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down
Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm, As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry, Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. But bark a plaintive sound floating along! "Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies Away, now rises full; it is the song Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear; It is the music of the heart, the voice Of venerable age, of guileless youth In kindly circle seated on the ground Before their wicker- door. Behold the man! The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book, His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight;; While heedless at a side, the lisping boy Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. When homeward bands their several ways disperse, I love to linger in the narrow field
Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb, And think of some who silent sleep below. Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass: The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep, Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves. But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog, His guide for many a day, now come to mourn The master and the friend-conjunction rare! A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,
Though bred to brave the deep; the lightning's flash Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes. He was a welcome guest through all his range- It was not wide-no dog would bay at him: Children would run to meet him on his way, And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales. Then would he teach the elfins how to plait The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship: And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me Perhaps with greater pity than I felt To see the wandering darkling on thy way. But let me quit this melancholy spot, And roam where nature gives a parting smile. As yet the bluebells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like I gaze. In vacancy of thought, upon that stream, And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam, Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf, Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
A WINTER SABBATH WALK. How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep The stillness of the winter Sabbath day- Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields, Each hollow pathway level with the plain: Hid are the bushes, save that here and there Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom. High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch. Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried; No step approaches to the house of prayer.
The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse, And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge, Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time To visit nature in her grand attire. Though perilous the mountainous ascent, A noble recompense the danger brings. How beautiful the plain stretched far below, Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream With azure windings, or the leafless wood! But what the beauty of the plain compared To that sublimity which reigns enthroned, Holding joint rule with solitude divine, Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance To steps the most adventurously bold? There silence dwells profound; or if the cry Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush, The mantled echoes no response return.
But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's, Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. Beware, ye shepherds of these treacherous haunts, Nor linger there too long: the wintry day Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall, Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen, While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill Mines for itself a snow-coved way! Oh, then, Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot, And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side, Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away: So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock From faithless pleasures, full into the storms Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green He brings them where the quiet waters glide, The stream of life, the Siloah of the soul.
THE RELATION OF INDIVIDUALS TO THE WORLD'S HISTORY. [GEORGE W. F. HEGEL, a German philosopher, born at Stuttgart, 1770, died 1831. At eight years of age Hegd
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