VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED. No. 15. PROMETHEUS. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. One after one the stars have risen and set, I could but guess; and then toward me came It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove! They are wrung from me but by the agonies Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall From clouds in travail of the lightning, when The great wave of the storm, high-curled and black Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? True Power was never born of brutish Strength, Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, That quell the darkness for a space, so strong As the prevailing patience of meek Light, Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace, Wins it to be a portion of herself? Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile? Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold What kind of doom it is whose omen flits Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves The tearful shadow of the kite. What need To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save? Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; When thine is finished, thou art known no more: And higher purity is greater strength; He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned, Is weaker than a simple human thought. And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, Into the rising surges of the pines. Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole: For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow In my wise heart the end and doom of all. Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown By years of solitude,-that holds apart The past and future, giving the soul room To search into itself,-and long commune And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge, Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are, Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak, This never-glutted vulture, and these chains Shrink not before it; for it shall befit A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Thebungling workmanship of fear, the block Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, A name to fright all tyrants with, a light Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung: Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, But, O thought far more blissful, they can rend Unleash thy crouching thunders now, O Jove! Thy puny godship, as this mountain doth With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings All hope of safety, all desire of peace, All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,- Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make But no, this cannot be; for ages yet, - Loneliest, save me, of all created things, Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, With thy pale smile of sad benignity? Year after year will pass away and seem But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds, Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill; But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, FROM LONGFELLOW'S HYPERION. And yet, if you look closely at the causes of these calamities of authors, you will find, that many of them spring from false and exaggerated ideas of poetry and the poetic character; and from disdain of common sense, upon which all character, worth having, is founded. This comes from keeping aloof from the world, apart from our fellow-men; disdainful of society, as frivolous By too much sitting still the body becomes unhealthy; and soon the mind. This is nature's law. She will never see her children wronged. If the mind, which rules the body, ever forgets itself so far as to trample upon its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury; but will rise and smite its oppressor. Thus has many a monarch mind been dethroned. LITERARY FAME. Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters, never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,-Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten, as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to Would win men back to strength and peace through this: well knowing, that, as their bodies must ere love : Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart HOPE. BY RICHARD PENN SMITH. Hope in the young heart springeth As birds when the flowers appear. Hope in the old heart dieth, As wither those early flowers; Hope from the old heart flieth, As the birds from wintry bowers. But Spring will revive the flowers; long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them; so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished individual being among men; but be resolved and inthoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an corporated into the universe of thought. If, then, the imagination can trace the noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a beer-barrel, and know that Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, May stop a hole to keep the wind away;" not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great men, till it finds them mouldered into the common dust of conversation, and used to stop men's mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the flaws of opinion. Such, for example, are all popular adages and wise proverbs, which are now resolved into the common mass of thought; their authors forgotten, and having no more an individual being among men. It is better, therefore, that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible perhaps to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,-at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded, that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny. It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is something equally true. yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prosepoet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose, that a period of time will ever come, when the world, or any considerable portion of it shall have come up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them. And oh how majestically they walk in history; some like the sun, with all his travelling glories round him; others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly Paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils! And yet, on earth, these men were not happy, not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons! Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;-and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death, and the world talks of them, while they sleep! It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun's eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and for ever! THE SCHOLAR'S HOME. But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout, * * where should the scholar live? In solitude or in society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err, who think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. But after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song? Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the Land of Song; there lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity:- the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;-and to be in this and be a part of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men;-such, such should be the poet's life. If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of street scenery. A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain bridges. These are the great themes of human thought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of Nature we make our own. and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory. I fear, however, interrupted Flemming, that in cities the soul of man grows proud. He needs at times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian monarch, into green fields, a wonderous wretch and weedless,' to eat green herbs, and be wakened and chastised by the rain-shower and winter's bitter weather. Moreover, in cities there is danger of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and forgetful of its high vocation. There have been souls dedicated to heaven from childhood and guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions for holy thoughts, and prayers, and all good purposes; wherein pious wishes dwelt like nuns, and every image was a saint; and yet in life's vicissitudes, by the treachery of occasion, by the thronging passions of great cities, have become |