I have sent forth my wrath for the souls of the slain, Yet think not I fear, 'tis a passion unknown, To him who now walks through the forest, alone: I stand like the blackened and storm-beaten tree, Not one! not a creature on earth owns a part, Yes I wander alone, like the deer on the hill, And a thousand wild fancies my dark bosom thrill. Like the light breeze that wafts the brown autumn leaf hither, So Logan goes forth, and no mortal knows whither. A spirit comes over the mountain afar—— Like the lovely mild glow of the evening star, Her robe is of white, and is streaming behind, And she comes floating slow o'er the wings of the wind. It is she, my companion in love, it is she! And the bright angel group round her bosom I see! The whisper of breezes! she calls me away! C. W. THOMSON. Death of Copernicus. PROVIDENCE, which has ends innumerable to answer, in the conduct of the physical and intellectual, as of the moral world, sometimes permits the great discoverers fully to enjoy their fame; sometimes to catch but a glimpse of the extent of their achievements; and sometimes sends them dejected and heart broken to the grave, unconscious of the importance of their own discoveries, and not merely undervalued by their contemporaries, but by themselves. It is plain that Copernicus, like his great contemporary, Columbus, though fully conscious of the boldness and the novelty of his doctrine, saw but a part of the changes it was to effect in science. After harboring in his bosom for long, long years, that pernicious heresy,-the solar system, he died on the day of the appearance of his book from the press. The closing scene of his life, with a little help from the imagination, would furnish a noble subject for an artist. For thirty-five years he has revolved and matured in his mind, his system of the heavens. A natural mildness of disposition, bordering on timidity, a reluctance to encounter controversy, and a dread of persecution, have led him to withhold his works from the press; and to make known his system but to a few confidential disciples and friends. At length he draws near his end; he is seventy-three years of age, and he yields his work on "the Revolutions of the heavenly orbs" to his friends for publication. The day at last has come, on which it is to be ushered into the world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543. On that day,-the effect no doubt of the intense excitement of his mind, operating upon an exhausted frame,-an effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His last hour has come; he lies stretched upon the couch, from which he will never rise, in his apartment at the Canonry at Frauenberg, East Prussia. The beams of the setting sun glance through the gothic win I 6* 65 66 DEATH OF COPERNICUS. dows of his chamber; near his bed-side is the armillary sphere, which he has contrived to represent the theory of his heavens, -his picture painted by himself, the amusement of his earlier years, hangs before him; beneath it his Astrolabe and other imperfect astronomical instruments; and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples. The door of the apartment opens;the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters; it is a friend, who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that had ever been distictly taught by former philosophers :-he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had acknowledged for a thousand years;he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innovations; he knows that the attempt will be made to press even religion into the service against him; but he knows that his book is true. He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth, as his dying bequest to the world. He bids the friend, who has brought it, place himself between the window and his bed-side, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he may behold it once, before his eyes grow dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires.—But no, he is not wholly gone! A smile lights upon his dying countenance; a beam of returning intelligence kindles in his eye;—his lips move; and the friend, who leans over him, can hear him, faintly murmer the beautiful sentiments, which the Christian lyrist, of a later age, has so finely expressed in verse: "Ye golden lamps of heaven! farewell, with all your feeble light, Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress of the night! And thou, refulgent orb of day, in brighter flames arrayed, My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid. Ye stars, are but the shining dust of my divine abode, The pavement of those heavenly courts, where I shall reign with God." The City. NOT in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see, Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity: Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper, and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty! here, amidst the crowd With everlasting murmur, deep and loud, 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes: For them thou fillest with air the unbounded skies And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy spirit is around, Quick'ning the restless mass that sweep along; Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee! And when the hours of rest, Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, The quiet of that moment too is thine : It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. BRYANT. Ou Drawing. By many, the art of drawing is considered a useless accomplishment, having no practical value or importance. No opinion could be more erroneous. On the contrary, its utility makes it worthy of a prominent place among the pursuits of every class of people. To the mechanic and the man of science, the art of drawing is indispensable. The artisan must first draw his model if he would ensure success to his labour, and it is only the practised eye that can define the "little more or less" that is necessary to perfect the line of beauty, and none but a practised hand, can, by the slightest variation of a curve, add grace and effect to the whole contour. By the same means the scientific student demonstrates the result of his researches. Without the aid of the pencil how limited would be our knowledge of natural history, and the position and productions of the various countries with which we are now made familiar! But regarding it merely as a pursuit of pleasure, it is a source of the most refined enjoyment. And is there nothing gained by the influence of such a pursuit on the mind? Is not every pursuit valuable that is in itself elevating, whether its influence is limited to individuals or extended to communities? Another advantage not to be overlooked in this pursuit, is, the increase it gives to our sources of pleasure and in enumerating those that are most [desirable, we would rank as the highest, that derived from the beauties of Nature. No one can take delight in them and be indifferent to their source. The lover of nature is not always a lover of art-but the true lover of art is always a lover of nature; and as a lover of nature, his pleasure is much increased by the habit of close observation that is necessary to the practice of art. The form of every leaf, the colour of every flower, and the hue of every cloud, then catch his attention, and by the admiration they |