DAYBREAK.

DAY had awakened all things that be,

The lark, and the thrush, and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song, and the mower's scythe,
And the matin bell and the mountain bee:
Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glowworms went out, on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,

The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun,
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.

EARLY DAWN.

The point of one white star is quivering still ·
Deep in the orange light of widening morn,
Beyond the purple mountains: through a chasm
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake

Reflects it; now it wanes: it gleams again

As the waves fade, and as the burning threads

Of woven cloud unravel in pale air:

'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow The roseate sunlight quivers: hear I not

The Æolian music of her sea-green plumes
Winnowing the crimson dawn?

MORNING.

Methought among the lawns together

We wandered, underneath the young, gray dawn,
And multitudes of dense, white, fleecy clouds
Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains,
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind;

And the white dew on the new-bladed grass,

Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently.

NIGHT.

How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh,

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,

So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it

A metaphor of peace; all form a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence, undisturbed, might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.

AIR CHARIOTS.

The rocks are cloven, and through the purple night
I see cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds,
Which trample the dim winds: in each there stands
A wild-eyed charioteer, urging their flight.
Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there;
And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars:
Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink
With eager lips the wind of their own speed;
As if the thing they loved fled on before,

And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright locks
Stream like a comet's flashing hair: they all

Sweep onward.

THE AVALANCHE.

Hark! the rushing snow!

The sun-awakened avalanche! whose mass,

Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there
Flake after flake; in heaven-defying minds

*

As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth
Is loosened, and the nations echo round,

Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now.

WINTER.

It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests, and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold:
Alas, then, for the homeless beggar old!

MUSIC.

My soul is an enchanted boat,

Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside the helm, conducting it,

While all the winds with melody are ringing.

It seems to float ever, forever

Upon that many winding river,

Between mountains, woods, abysses,

A paradise of wildernesses!

This passage is from The Prometheus Unbound, a drama founded on the early Greek mythology, in which there is a strife between Jupiter, the ruler of heaven, and Prometheus, the friend of humanity. "Heaven-defying" is here used as an epithet of praise, applied to those who resist oppression.

CXXV.-LABOR AND POVERTY.

CARLYLE.

[THOMAS CARLYLE was born in Dumfriesshire, in Scotland, in 1796, and has resided for many years in or near London. While quite young, he wrote several spe for Brewster's Edinburgh Encyclopædia; but he first began to attract attention by his contributions to the Edinburgh Review, and especially by an admirable paper on Burns. Ho rose by degrees into great popularity and commanding influence as a writer, but was known and valued at an earlier period in America tuan at home. His works are quite numerous: among them are a Life of Schiller, Sartor Resartus.* a History of the French Revolution, Past and Present, Heroes and Hero-worship, Latter Day Pamphlets, a Life of Sterling, The Life and Letters of Cromwell, Chartism, and several volumes of contributions to periodical literature.

Carlyle is an original thinker, and a powerful writer. His early and familiar acquaintance with the literature of Germany has given a peculiar character to his style, by which some are repelled and some are attracted; the latter being now the larger part. Portions of his later writings read like literal translations from the German. He is fond of odd turns of expression, and has a family of pet words, which he introduces on all occasions. His style is thus very marked, and never to be mistaken for that of any other author. His writings are not easy reading at first; but those who like them at all like them much.

Carlyle's mind embodies the principle of protest and dissent. It seems a sort of necessity with him to set his face against the spirit of the time. He has no great faith in representative assemblies; he distrusts the philanthropic and benevolent associations of the age; he doubts the unmixed good of mechanical inventions and improvements. And yet he has a deep sympathy with all who suffer. He honors truth, and inculcates stern self-reliance; he reverences greatness, and acknowledges the divine right of power. His writings push this last doctrine too far, and give up too much the rights of the weak to the power of the strong. He seems inclined to justify every thing that a great man does, simply because he is great. His very able book on Cromwell is open to this objection.

Carlyle's writings will richly repay those who have learned to like or even not to dislike his quaint and rugged style. In all matters requiring research, he is very thorough and exact. He has a great power of picturesque and animated painting. His accounts of the opening of the States General, of the death of Mirabeau, and of the king's flight to Varennes-all in The History of the French Revolution — are instances of this. He abounds in pungent, biting humor, which gleams up through his rough sentences like seams of fire through the rifts of a volcanic soil. Nor is the source of tears barred from his touch. The article on Johnson, in his miscellaneous writings, is one of the most pathetic and deep-hearted productions that ever was written.

The following extract is from his Sartor Resartus, one of his early works, containing a variety of speculations on life and literature, in the form of a biography of an Imaginary German professor.]

Two men I honor, and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman, that with earth-made implement laboriously con

* Two Latin words, meaning "the tailor patched." There is a good deal of humor in the book on the subject of dress and clothes.

quers the earth, and makes her man's. Venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse, wherein, notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the sceptre of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living manlike. O, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! Hardlyentreated brother! For us was thy back so bent; for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed. Thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee, too, lay a God-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; incrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labor; and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on; thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable for daily bread.

A second man I honor, and still more highly; him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty; struggling towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavors, be they high or low? Highest of all when his outward and his inward endeavor are one; when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, that with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us! If the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him, in return, that he may have light and guidance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I honor; all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.

Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dig nities united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a peasant saint, could such now any where be met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendor of heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth, like a light shining in great darkness.