of national interest. It seems as if Homer, after having composed the Iliad, lingered still around his loved theme till his mind became calmed after its fierce agitation, and fitted to touch a milder and more home-like chord. He sings of Ulysses the wanderer-of Penelope the chaste and unwavering amid a thousand temptations-of Telemachus passing from land to land, and from island to island, to find some trace of Ulysses, his father. As he had before sung of valor in the hour of conflict and the fierce passions of the warrior, he now sings of the quiet virtues of home and ancient hospitality. But still his theme is Ulysses wandering back from Troy. In like manner the Eneid dates back to this same event, though it is much farther separated from it both in purpose and time than the poems of Homer. Virgil touched it, not so much to paint the glory of his ancestors, as to explain their origin. As a Roman, the fall of Troy interested him only in the inquiry,

genus unde Latinum

Albanique patres, atque altæ moenia Romæ.

When he comes to the truly heroic part of his poem, the action is no longer at Troy, but in Italy. We see his hero warring against the fierce native tribes, and preparing a dwelling for the future race.

There is one exception, or at least a seeming exception, to these remarks. Milton's Paradise Lost is based upon no subject of national interest, except so far as his own nation shared it in common with the race. But as Channing says of him, "he obeys higher laws than he transgresses." He chose a theme which interests us, not as members of any nation, but as members of the human family. Addison says, "Milton's poem is admirable in this respect, since it is impossible for any of his readers, whatever nation, or country, or people he may belong to, not to be related to the persons who are the principal actors in it. But what is still infinitely more to its advantage, the principal actors in this poem are not only our progenitors, but our representatives. We have an actual interest in every thing they do, and no less than our utmost happiness is concerned, and lies at stake in all their behavior." May we not account for the fact, (in part at least,) that this poem of Milton was so long in attaining its true rank in the literary world, to the circumstance, that men had dwelt so long upon the fall, and its consequences to our race, that their interest in it was but a latent interest, lurking in the deep and hidden recesses of the soul. We all know how an agreement of circumstances will sometimes rouse an emotion, that has been long slumbering in the secret chambers of the mind, and that we had supposed was

entirely extinguished. This sleeping interest had to be awakened, before the full beauty and perfection of this poem could press strongly upon the mind. And even now it is not the first reading of "Paradise Lost" that affects us most strongly. This seems but a necessary preparation. It is by this that the mind becomes impressed with the grandeur and importance of the theme, and its deep interest to us as members of the family of Adam.

Hence we may infer, that the great Poet is but the representative of the nation, and the age in which he lives. To him is given the power of developing an all-pervading sentiment; and thus he is emphatically the "High Priest of Nature." What is the poetry of Wordsworth but an exemplification of that clear and intellectual spirit, that now pervades the enlightened nations of the earth? It is the poetry of a contemplative ageframed for men who have turned aside from the hot pursuits of war and vain ambition. It leads us into silent, lonely places, where we may hold converse with Nature and with God. It teaches us to listen to the low, sweet music, that stirs in quiet dells or in mountain solitudes; but, more than all, to lend an attentive ear to

"The still sad music of humanity."

Thus we may see that Nature in a measure forces the Poet to his subject. It rises within him like a dream of childhood. D'Israeli has beautifully described the inward life of a youthful poet, when one of these themes is just taking root in the heart. "He sits brooding over his first dim images in that train of thought we call reverie, with a restlessness of delight, for he is only the being of sensation, and has not yet learnt to think; then comes that tenderness of spirit-that first shade of thought coloring every scene and deepening every feeling."

We have had time to notice but few works in reference to their connection with national history. But the mind of the reader will readily suggest innumerable cases as much in point, as those that have been referred to. Now is it not fair to predicate something of law, to account for this almost universal connection? There has been no concert of action in the production of these works. The authors have been far separated from each other, both in place and time; and what is still more in point, many of them have been wrought in the silent chamber of the student, with the secret in his own heart. How shall we account for this coincidence, except by referring it to the guidance of an internal suggestion?

Our next inquiry will be, when do the events of a nation's history become fit subjects for the Poet and the Romancer?

And here, as before, we will be led by the lamp of Nature. The present is all barren. The Romance of our lives is not here; it lies in the remote past, or in the shadowy future. How do the scenes of to-day or yesterday, compare with our dim recollections of early childhood-our wanderings in ancient forests-or by winding, murmuring brooks? Are the flowers that bloomed the last spring as beautiful as the flowers of our memory? Does even our refined intercourse of soul with soul, seem so sweet, as when in early life we walked hand in hand, and told our childish fancies? Time is the beautifier of all things. It purges away their grossness and materiality, and leaves behind only the spiritual essence. History goes on, penning down the transactions of each day, as they open in the world's development. Poetry lingers far behind, and gathers them up, as they come purified and spiritualized through the alembic of time. Three hundred years had passed, from the fall of Troy to the time when Homer wrote the Iliad. The bruised and battered armor of the old warriors was hung up in the Grecian dwellings, as relics of a by-gone age. A dimness was gathering over the past-a dimness too, that gathered faster than in these modern times, when every important event is brought familiarly before the mind in a hundred forms. It was the dimness of tradition.

He

He that attempts to write a great poem, based upon the events of the present day, is situated like a man suddenly set down for the first time in the midst of a bustling city. In his retirement he has conceived of it as a great system-wheel working silently within wheel, and all producing a beautiful and harmonious whole. But now he is utterly confounded. sees crowds rushing confusedly in this direction and in that, apparently without aim or purpose. He is stunned by the cries of men, and the rattling of vehicles; and all his fine fancies of a system which he has conceived in solitude, at once vanish. His first conception was, notwithstanding, the true one. Placed at a distance, and looking at it through the eye of the mind, he lost sight of individuals, and took in the unity of the whole. Now he looks upon a few minute wheels distinct from the rest, and therefore cannot trace their connection with the great econHow much easier is it to comprehend any period of ancient history, than to get a clear conception of that of our own time?-from the simple fact, that ten thousand trivial and unimportant circumstances now press confusedly upon the mind, and conceal the great connecting links of events. In the contemplation of the past, these slight circumstances no longer encumber the memory. We have to dwell only upon the great chain of causes and effects, that connects that age with the past

and the future. In the present, it is not possible in the nature of things ever to arrive at this clearness and certainty. When the history of the present shall have become the history of the past, many events, that now seem important, will in their consequences dwindle into insignificance, or entirely fade from the memory; while other events, apparently of no consequence, will be seen in their results to have been the great connecting links of affairs. Thus we may see that present events form no good foundation for the airy structure of the poet. They do not create within his mind any poetic interest. The things which move upon him are things of the past, things of an age, over which the silence of the sepulchre has spread itself. He must have that clear, intellectual conception of a subject, which it is impossible to attain amid the noise and confusion of the present. We have an example that exactly suits our purpose. Lucan wrote an epic poem to commemorate the battle of Pharsalia, and the death of Pompey-events that had but just transpired when he wrote. Now the battle of Pharsalia was an event of more importance to Rome, than the fall of Troy to Greece. Pompey, too, from his splendid exploits and heroic character, was worthy of being the hero of a national poem. But the "Pharsalia" of Lucan is seldom read. By those who have gone through with it, it is said to contain some rare beauties, mingled with immemorable defects. The subject was too coarse and material for the poet. It may be said, that a poem written under such circumstances, though it might not suit the ear of a contemporary, will have the same charm for the readers of after time, as though it had been written later. But the truth is not so. Time can purge away the dross from history, and make it suitable for the poet. But when this drossness has once been embodied in the poem, it will manifest itself to the readers of every age.

It may be remarked, too, in passing, that the events of history which operate most powerfully upon the poet of future time, are not those that are the most softening and humanizing in their immediate tendencies. They are more often the fierce movements of men, urged on by fiery passions to the accomplishment of bold designs. When we contemplate these facts, in the silence of after years, it is with a philosophic mind. We cannot think of the Goths and Vandals who destroyed Rome, as individual men, acting by individual motives. We conceive of them rather as a dark mass, rising like a river in the stern regions of the north, and borne onward by an irresistible impulse. The vile and degrading passions, that must have been at work in the breasts of this tumultuous crowd, are all merged in the splendor of their design and the boldness of their execution.

We admire the power which a single individual can put forth, when all his emotions are stirred even to the lowest depths of his nature, when he rises not only above other men, but far above himself. There is a feeling within us, that sympathizes for a moment even with the bold and daring rebel, when we see him acting with the might of a giant. Milton keeps alive in us this sympathy towards the fallen archangel through the whole progress of his poem. The truth is, in all these wild exhibitions of power, we recognize the elements of a lofty nature. Such, then, are the enterprises, when mellowed by the influence of time, that form the most suitable themes for the Poet and Romancer. They charm the mind, and kindle the imagination.

May not the richness and strange variety of the Literature of the Germans be attributed (in part at least) to the manner of their origin and growth as a nation? Tacitus has given us a beautiful picture of the early tribes that inhabited the deep German forests. They had all the high virtues of the Stoic in domestic life, but a lion-like ferocity in the hour of danger and of battle. They sought for war as a wild and stirring game, to break the tedium and dullness of a northern life. But it is the hardest marble that will bear the highest polish; and such are the tribes that always form the strongest basis for a national character. Nowhere can the fair germs of learning and of art be so finely engrafted, as on one of these wild and stubborn trunks of the wilderness. Such were the men, who, in later times, gave birth to the grandeur of Gothic architecture-vast and solemn as their own Gothic minds—and such are the men now refined and civilized, that are making their influence felt to the ends of the earth. Let us rejoice that the Saxon blood is now flowing in our veins, mingling its strong currents with the pure streams of the Norman. We have thus alluded to this subject, because the German Literature is but a transcript of the national history, in its progress and growth. And so we believe it will always be.

A nation's poetry is then nothing more than a nation's history etherealized. Almost every great event of the past is embalmed and reposes in some niche of this vast spiritual temple. It is history without its grossness. It is to plain and statistical narration, what the ambrosia of the ancient gods was, compared with the food of mortals. Or, to change the simile, it is a camera obscura, into which, when you look, you shall see the past reflected in dim and shadowy images.

But we have not yet directly answered the inquiry, "how long must it be ere the subjects of history become fit themes for the Poet and Romancer?" In this matter the mind must be its own guide. It is a period not to be measured by time, but