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Here, here I saw her, marked her bosom's swell,
Her modest blush, the glow of her full soul;

My heart on waves of rapture rose and fell,
Then sank to rest, and hade them o'er me roll.

Then was I—by her rosy arms embraced —

What I again on earth may never be.
Oh ! precious memories, ne'er to be erased,

Ye bless, yet kindle bitter griefs for me.

Twice since I 've seen the spring his charms renew,
And spread his flush of beauty o'er the earth;

And twice stern winter from the tields withdrew,
And where he trod, sweet flowerets sprang to birth.

The early hope of our young budding joys,
That meets us in the freshness of our prime,

Fades as a leaf: cold winter soon destroys
The flower and promise of our early time.

In the dim distance, where a golden flame

Kindles upon each lofty, towering hill, 1 turn and gaze ; I greet yon stars by name,

Where silence reigns, and the tossed heart is still.

The sad music of this elegiac strain seems to be the prophetic requiem of the Author's Genins. His early-blighted hopes give it a new force and beauty. But the most beautiful of Sonnenberg's poems which we have met with, is one entitled,


Cl*se thine eyes, my child, to rest;

Be thy sleep like angels' blest;

On thy sister's arm repose;

Joy around thee never flows
Sweeter than what heaven now grantcth,
Pillowed where no evil haunteth;

Blest the dreams of such as thou;

Heaven's own seal upon thy brow.

In the bloom of spring I bear
Thee abroad to breathe its air;
Fragrance shed mid all its bowers,
Beauty clothing all its flowers;
There, mid nature's temples' treasure,
Teach thee songs of guiltless pleasure,
While o'er thee from light above
Angel spirits bend in love.

When we crown thy brow with flowers
Plucked from nature's blooming bowers,
Fold thy hands as lilies fair,
Lift them to the heavens in prayer;

Guided by such kind tuition,

Thou dost lisp thy first petition;

He who makes the earth his care
Listens to thine infant prayer.

Then thou clasp'st me, and my kiss,
Given for thine, doth crown thy bliss;
And I sing the song that tells
Where the mighty Father dwells,

Who the morn with light that gloweth,

And a mother's care bestoweth;
Who his little child will hear,
Guardian angels stationed near.

Then, as sinks the sun to rest,

And thy hand in mins is pressed,

We together lift our prayer,

Seek alike our Father's care.
In a sweet and glad fruition,
We unite in our petition;

Smile while taught by star and sod

Nature shows the heart of God.

'' Blooms the violet afar,

Mid the light of yonder star?"
Yes ; beyond the evening's glow
Dwells the God that guards thee now.
"But in that far distance, sister,
Round him do love's stars still glister?"
Yes j for many such as thou
Bow before him : rest thou now.

In one of his poems, written in the metre of * Longfellow's Evangeline, he gives the substance of an old romance, which he reclothes and presents in a form of the deepest interest. Alina is an orphan child. She is seen seated in the beams of evening, in the shade of the lonely grove, sadly meditating upon her griefs. Her father had fallen in battle. Her brother had gone to the Holy Land to die, and his bones rested on the banks of the Jordan. A mother she had never known; for in giving birth to her child that mother died. Alone in the forest shadows of the evening she sits, till her grief finds a relief in plaintive song. At this moment her lover approaches—one who is to her father, mother and brother, all in one. He tells her that he must away to the battle to win renown. But sadness is traced upon his manly countenance. At length the tears flow. "Why is this?" she aska; but he refuses to tell. "Shall not your loved one," she exclaims, "share your griefs V' At length he yields, and tells her of a dream—not of death—but of her unfaithfulnees. Tenderly does she assure him of her affection that shall follow him to battle or to death. But this he will not suffer, but bids her at such an j hour, at a place specified, meet him on his return. ; Binding her necklace to his arm as a memorial, she bids him go, but hasten back again lo meet j her. He goes. The battle rages, and he is in I the thickest of the fight. The field of conflict is on the banks of the stream far above the place where he had appointed to meet her. Meanwhile, at this place she stands gazing on the swollen current red with blood. A corpse is borne along with the necklace on its arm. It is her lover slain in battle—so at least she thinks, and flings herself into the stream and clasps the arm of the dead, rising and sinking with it, as ] the stream bears both along united in death. At . length her lover appears. He calls Alina, but

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there is no answer. He looks around him far and near, and at last sees the floating bodies. And there is the necklace. He looks on his own arm, and it is gone. In the clash of battle it had been torn away. Another had found it and bound it to his arm, and then fallen in battle and been borne away by the stream. Here was his terrible dream terribly fulfilled. In the desperation of his grief and madness he throws himself into the stream and perishes with his Alina. Some of Sonnenberg's epigrams, whatever may be thought by many of their justice, are proofs, at least, of what he was capable in this direction. Those which we cite bear somewhat hard on the medical profession.

No one sick yet! the day is almost fled:
Give us, O God, this day our daily bread.


A. Where is the land of rest, of which the parson tells?

B. Tis easy found, my friend : here the physician dwells.

O traveller, here Agrippa rests,

His duty well discharged;
He's filled more graves than this: by him

The churchyard was enlarged.
His merits many as the stones

That thickaroundarcset,
And many cities, though he's gone,

Cease not to mourn him yet.

We have spoken of Sonnenberg as the Kirko White of Germany. The parallel holds good between them in the last poem of each. The subject in both cases was of a high and sublime character, and in each case is made to manifest the individuality of the writer. No one who has read will soon forget the two closing stanzas—the last that were traced by the pen of the English poet—commencing,

"Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme,'' &c.

Sonnenberg's poem is addressed "To God the World-judge," and, written in a storm, employs the terrible accompaniments of the tempest to make more vivid the pictures of the final judgment After this has been represented, while the scene is still clothed in all its fearful impressiveness, he exclaims,

Oh I how Thy terrors seize my soul I
What mighty thoughts of judgment darkly roll

Over my spirit 1 Save,
0 God I from this despairing wave.

• •••••

Help me, O God I I sink
Deep in thy terrors' stream without a brink;

Waves of eternal death
Pass o'er and drown my feeble breath.

Father and Sen,
And thou, O Spirit,
Holy Three-One,
Whose burning glance turns pale
The stars and sun;

To thee, to thee streams forth my prayer
From my heart's flaming deeps of sad despair.

I grasp the rocks—O God!
Mercy! withdraw thy dreadful rod 1

The thunder is now heard only in peals along the distant hills; light breaks from the cloud, and hope revives.

O'er distant hills the thunder diss;
Forth beams a smile of light from yonder skies.

'Tis thine, O Father : I
Thank thee that thou hast heard my cry.

The writer of such a poem as the one of which we have here given an extract is worthy to be ranked by the side of the author of that stanza—

"Howl! winds of night: your force combine:

Without His high behest,
Ye shall not in the mountain pine

Disturb the sparrow's nest.

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Wdatever may be our Future, the Past is safe in the keeping of imperishable memories. Society and government on these shores had a Christian birth and baptism. Scenes are embalmed, both in American history and art, of intercession with God for this land, not inferior in earnest importunity to that memorable occasion when the Chaldean patriarch, looking off from the heights of Mamre over the rich valley of Jordan, prayed for the rescue of Sodom from avenging fires. Even thus have good men departed pleaded for this fair home of ours in times of peril and almost of despair; and for the righteous men among us, God has had favor towards this our heritage.

'Tis pleasant, in gloomy days, to turn to these memorials of public piety. It is an honor to have derived our origin, politically as well as personally, from the good. It is an encouragement to hope for our ultimate civil salvation. Our fathers believed in God after a very practical fashion. Thus: One hundred years ago, New England was planning an expedition to capture the fortress of Louisburg on Cape Breton from the French. The relations of France with the Pope, then a strong power in European affairs of state, and to our hostile Indian tribes of the



Northern frontiers, made it quite indispensable to secure this point from the enemy. The Colonists went about the enterprise as religiously as ever Hebrew Joshua or Gideon led forth the chosen tribes against Philistina. Says Bancroft; • On the first Sabbath how did 'the very great company of people' come together on shore to hear the sermon on enlisting as volunteers in the service of the Great Captain of our salvation I" Seth Pomroy writes home to his wife : "Louisburg is an exceedingly strong place, and seems impregnable; but I am willing to stay till God's time comes to deliver the city into our hands." His wife replies: "Suffer no anxious thought to rest in your mind about me. The whole town is much engaged with concern for the expedition, how Providence will order the affair, for which religious meetings every week are maintained. I leave you in the hand of God."* The undertaking succeeded. But the next year, the startling news ran through the land, that the French Duke D'Anville was nearing the coast with a large force to retake Louisburg. No troops nor warlike supplies were ready to meet this exigency. It was a moment of cruel suspense and alarm. But those near descendants of the Pilgrims knew whither to look. Days of fasting were appointed, and devoutly observed throughout the provinces. The country fled to God for succor. And they tested once more the truthfulness of the old poet's rhyme:

11 When we of helps or hopes are quite bercaven, Our humble prayers have entrance into heaven."

The arm of Providenee saved the Colonists. D'Anville's fleet of some forty ships of war and transports, conveying nearly four thousand veteran troops, with officers and all kinds of military stores in abundance, was first overwhelmed with terrific storms which wrecked many of the vessels. Pestilence followed; "and the death first of one commander of the expedition, who was suspected of poisoning himself, and afterwards the actual suicide of another, determined the remaining officers to return to France. A more remarkable instance of preservation seldom occurs."! The people of New England said that God had protected them as he smote with his midnight angel the hosts of Syria before Samaria.

"Lo! Ashur's king blasphemes thy holy shrine,
Insults our offerings and derides our vows;
Oh! strike the diadem from his impious brows,
Tear from his murderous hand the bloody rod,
And teach the trembling nations ' Thou art God ['

• Bancroft, Hist., I. 459-481.

f Frost's United States Hist., II. 39.

Hark 1 o'er the camp the venomed tempest sings:
Man falls on man, on buckler buckler rings;
Groan answers groan, to anguish anguish yields,
And Death's loud accents shake the tented fields."

So prayed our fathers, and so they looked for deliverance to the "God of battles."

We cannot answer for all our public acts, but no American ever need blush for the following records of our national government. During the Revolution, Congress made five different recommendations of days of fasting and prayer; and as often of days of general thanksgiving to God in junctures of unusual trials and successes. And we still may read on its Journals the fact, that this body of venerable and vigorous statesmen appointed a committee to superintend the issue of an edition of the Bible; which commission being satisfactorily discharged, Congress accepted the work, and passed resolutions most warmly commending it to the inhabitants of the United States.

Some of our readers have hanging upon their walls a fine memorial of those days when God was feared. When the Congress of 1774 had come together in Carpenters' Hall, Philadelphia —the first which assembled to consider the growing controversy of the Colonies with Great Britain—while the delegates from Maine to Carolina were exchanging their first troubled greetings, and canvassing what counsels to follow in their untried and perplexed circumstances, it was proposed by one of the body to call in a clergyman and unite in imploring the Divine aid in their deliberations. The suggestion was adopted. A clergyman was sent for;, and that illustrious baud of sages and patriots, "conditoret impcriorum," bowed themselves, as seldom have mortals bowed, before God, to supplicate a nation's life. The pencil of genius has caught the moment of most fervid devotion, and placed that immortal hour before us on the speaking canvas. Let him who doubts whether our fathers believed in religion, etudy that "First Prayer in Congress." It is an eloquent sermon, indeed. Bring back its historic surroundings—the dangers of the time, the interests just then depending, the struggle for human right hastening. Look at the manly forms of Washington, Lee, Patrick Henry, prostrate in earnest intercession; and then, the bowed heads of the Adamses, Jay, and Roger Sherman. It is a tableau to live for ever, and to tell us that men of heroic natures, etrong in nerve and understanding, have not thought it weakness to acknowledge the Christian's God as the arbiter of the destinies of men. Our "birth148


and baptism" was into that faith. God save m from apostasy I God restore oar baekslidings I



The possession of intellectual existence involves momentous responsibilities. Human power and human duty are coordinates. The capabilities of becoming and achieving, which are potentially inherent in humanity, present a just measurement of his obligations. The faculties with which man is endowed are the truest and best indices of what he may and ought to become, as well as of what he can and should achieve. Each individual of the human race has his part in the great "Life-Drama" to enact; and for this he must fit himself by culture. The full, free, equal, and just development of the whole general and special capacities of our nature, constitutes culture. Man is essentially a self-developing and spontaneously-active intelligence. Activity is the law of human life ; and happiness is the result of obedience.

"Omission to do what is necessary
teals a commission to a carte blanche of danger."

Duty is the great man's constant spur; and to live well is to be truly great. Although

"The ample proposition that hope malcea
In all designs begun on earth below,
Fails in the promised largeness,"

yet "joy's Boul lies in the doing" of all that is •wrapped up in that one grand word—Duty. "If," says Goethe, "we do our duty to our own minds, we shall soon come to do it to the world." Hence we believe that the primary and most indispensable business of life is Self-Culture. "Persiative constancy" in that seldom fails to yield "peace of conscience," as well as the ability to aid in forwarding the happiness and brotherhood of man. A noble life can only result from noble aims nobly executed; and the lowliest born of human beings may thus more truly ennoble himself than by attaining all the tinselry of rank. Virtue is the only heraldry of heaven.

As man is situated, in his present state, some little development is necessarily forced upon him. This arises inevitably from the law of existence, which, in so far as relates to human beings, may be propounded under the following formula, viz.:—Man, while he retains all cognate and specific individual characteristies, constantly endeavors to assimilate all outward things to

himself, and becomes himself, in part, assimilated to them. From this mutual action and reaction there results a gradual and progressive education of his various faculties, so far as opportunity is given for their manifestation and exercise. The culture which is, as it were, forced upon man, and not self-originated, is never praiseworthy, and seldom greatly advantageous. Thus to pass wind-piloted

"Adown the fretful tide of circumstances,"

and never tack a sail to reach a given point along the shore, is both unworthy and dishonorable; nay, it is even far from being worldlywise,—

"For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue; if you give way,
Or edge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,
And leare you hindmost."

2o live—i. «., to be a fully-developed and constantly energetic being—ought to be the great primary aim of all men. Every thing else should be subordinate to that, or rather should be chosen and followed only as it is conducive to that. Life ought not to be one continued round of sweet sensations, selfish luxury, and dreamy gratification. For far other and different purposes was it granted us. It has higher and holier objects. As are the powers within us, and the relationships which surround us, so are our duties. The relative happiness which man is capable of feeling, depends upon the manner in which he exerts those powers and acts in these relationships. Self-culture is the voluntary development of the individual powers of man in accordance with the Jaws of his being and the relationships which environ him. The subsequent pages are intended to be devoted to a consideration of the motives for self-culture, and the method by which it may be most successfully accomplished.

To avoid ambiguity and indistinctness, it will be advisable to remark here, that the culture of which we now speak is general, as opposed to specific and professional—is the education of the whole nature and faculties of man, as differing from those particular acquisitions of skill and learning necessary for each in his respective avocation. Enjoyment is apportioned to human beings in the precise ratio of their individual culture, and the manner in which they employ the talents thus educed. To each human power there exists a definite pleasure, specifically adapted to the perception which that power manifests. The keener the sensibilities, the more



acute tjie judgment, the more delicate the taste, the more refined the moral feelings, the more subtle the intelligence, the loftier the religious instincts and aspirations, the purer and intenser are the gratifications which existence yields. How redolent of beauty and glory is the universe to the man of imagination—how full of lofty teaching to the scientific mind—how exquisitely attuned to sing its almighty Maker's praise to the pious and devout! The grace of art—the delicious rapture of music—the semi-divine influence of poesy—the adaptations of mechanical skill—the wonderful revelations of science—the delights of social converse—the abstruse yet sublime speculations of philosophy—the intense pleasure derived from duty conscientiously performed, and the enthusiastic thrill with which devotion fills the fervent soul—can only be duly appreciated by those who have had the several faculties to which these several productivities appeal—in whom culture has educed zest and developed keenly-discriminative nicety of apprehension. To acquire the greatest possible amount of power of enjoyment, is to lay up the best provision for a happy life. It must be recollected, however, that life is not exhausted in this single phase of being. We are believers in

'' That head and mighty paramount of truths,
Immortal life in never-fading world.''

Such a culture as confines itself to this poor, pitable speck—the earth—such sordid calculations as limit mans exertions to that which is presently profitable—such "circumscription and confine" as enchains all human aspirations within the petty circle of "the vain things of this world,"—we desire to rise beyond, and to appeal to higher, loftier, and nobler conceptions. TVe anxiously and earnestly wish each one of our readers to say with Fleming, in "Hyperion,"— "Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality. I will work in my own sphere Nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness. This alone is life.

'life that shnll send
A challenge to its end.

And when it conies, say—Welcome, friend,'"

The culture which we desiderate for each human being is such as shall morally exalt, by teaching the love of the good, the pure, the honorable, and the just—intellectually refine, by developing within him a love, a reverence, and an appreciation of truth, whether found in the "harmonious round" of external nature, the vortex of political or social life, or the inner and

self conscious soul by which truth is perceived— asthetically quicken, by imparting a knowledge of the principles of taste, a ready and accurate relish for the beautiful, the decorous, and the sublime—and religiously renovate, by the education of the ideas of God, Eternity, and Heaven— the expansion of Faith, Hope, and Love. This is a culture which in its comprehensiveness embraces the education and development of the entire personality, and is capable of fitting man for forming just notions of his own peculiar status in the universe of matter, the circles of social life, and among the immortal intelligences of creation. The essential universality of culture which would result from the coagency of these several activities, could not but tend to elevate humanity—could not but increase immensely the pleasures and the ecetacies of intellectual existence. And yet in all this there is nothing attempted but the mere culture of man as man—the mere activization of the inherent faculties of the mind. Is it an Utopian dream to fancy that such development could be coextensive with the race? It may be; but what hinders each in his own sphere to aim at the accom'plishment of so much of this culture as may be within the compass and range of his powers and circumstances I "Every man [to use again the words of Goethe] has his own success in his hand, just as the sculptor has the rough material which he intends to fashion into a statue. But it is with this art as with every other; capacity for it alone is born with us; to succeed in it, we must learn it and practise it."

Does any one ask the ever-reiterated query of our age, "Of what use is this culture which you so loudly laud?" We answer, in the language of Professor Young, "The use is to be realized in the mental satisfaction and the mental elevation it communicates. You do wrong to estimate culture solely and exclusively in proportion as it visibly contributes to our animal wants and enjoyments; there is an intellectual pleasure in the very process of acquiring knowledge, while the conscious possession of it raises the human I being in the scale of creation, and thus enables him to contemplate its wonders from a more exalted position. . . . Study is productive of advantages to the student altogether distinct from 'the benefits conferred by its applications to the practical purposes of life; it invigorates and enlarges the facultieE—refines and elevates the i desires, and adorns and dignifies the whole chaj meter, withdrawing our minds from what is mean I and degrading, and inclining them to the noblest

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