And with all shapes and hues his heart is one; And if a bird but sing, his ear must hear it, And the coarse, scentless flower is as a brother, And the green turf the gentle bosom of a mother.

And these he loves ;-and with all these the heart
Of frail humanity, which like a tremulous harp
Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart,

Sobs or rejoices; and when tempests sharp

Sweep the tense strings, a "sweet sad music" hears, Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping tears.

Who scorns the Poet's art, deserves the scorn Which he would heap on others' heads; that man Knows not the sacred gift and calling born

Within the Poet's soul when life began :

Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame,
But that his heart would wither else within its flame.

Time's wreaths await him: far in future ages, Twined in their amaranth beauty they are shining, And blessings rained upon his fragrant pages,

And tears from kindred hearts, quenching repining

With a warm sympathy, and smiles of joy
Embalm a sacred life which Time cannot destroy.

Oct. 1838.

Correspondences.

ALL things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that can read them;

Nothing exists upon earth, but for unspeakable ends, Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit;

Nature is but a scroll; God's handwriting thereon.

Ages ago when man was pure, ere the flood overwhelmed him,

While in the image of God every soul yet lived,

Every thing stood as a letter or word of a language familiar,

Telling of truths which now only the angels can read. Lost to man was the key of those sacred hieroglyphics, Stolen away by sin, till by heaven restored.

Now with infinite pains we here and there spell out a letter,

Here and there will the sense feebly shine through the

dark.

When we perceive the light that breaks through the visible symbol,

What exultation is ours! We the discovery have made! Yet is the meaning the same as when Adam lived sinless in Eden,

Only long hidden it slept, and now again is revealed. Man unconsciously uses figures of speech every mo

ment,

Little dreaming the cause why to such terms he is prone, Little dreaming that every thing here has its own correspondence

Folded within its form, as in the body the soul.

Gleams of the mystery fall on us still, though much is forgotten,

And through our commonest speech, illumine the path of our thoughts.

Thus doth the lordly sun shine forth a type of the God

head;

Wisdom and love the beams that stream on a darkened

world.

Thus do the sparkling waters flow, giving joy to the de

sert,

And the fountain of life opens itself to the thirst.

Thus doth the word of God distil like the rain and the

dew-drops;

Thus doth the warm wind breathe like to the Spirit of God;

And the green grass and the flowers are signs of the regeneration.

O thou Spirit of Truth, visit our minds once more,
Give us to read in letters of light the language celestial
Written all over the earth, written all over the sky-
Thus may we bring our hearts once more to know our
Creator,

Seeing in all things around, types of the Infinite Mind.
March, 1839.

The Thundergust.

SEE how the black cloud comes sweeping along on its terrible pinions;

Nearer and wider it grows, darkening the blue of the

sky!

See up the road how the wind with the dust comes sweeping and whirling,

Tossing the tops of the trees, tearing the leaves from their boughs!

Now it comes slamming the shutters and clattering off with the shingles,

Howling all round the house, screaming to enter the door.

Now do the men all hasten their steps each one to his

dwelling;

Servants are bustling about, barring the windows and doors.

Women look anxiously out, while their delicate bosoms are beating,

Watching the gaps of the clouds, waiting their husbands' return,

While with dull stare o'er the plain go moving the indolent cattle,

Seeking the dangerous tree standing alone in the field.

Darker and darker it grows; the clouds like rent curtains are hanging,—

Sharp is the lightning flash, keen as a scimetar blade. Rattling, bellowing, booming along rolls the terrible

thunder;

Children look timidly up to see where its dwelling may

be;

I once looked up as they do, to see where the thunder was going,

But there was nothing above, save the continuous clouds. Again there's a flash,-a start,-a pause, and the armies of heaven

Seem to be rolling afield, trampling the clouds as a floor! Now comes the rush of the rain; like mist in the wind it is sweeping;

Large come the pattering drops, washing the panes of the glass;

Now come the rattling hailstones, pelting the shelterless

roses,

Speckling the summer grass, showering crystals abroad, A present from winter to summer, a message to tell her he's coming.

But the storm ceases at length; windows fly open again. Rolls away in the distance the muttering moan of the thunder,

Through the rifts of the clouds peeps the blue of the sky, Warm and broad o'er the earth the slant sun gaily is

smiling,

While the bright bow in the east gives us the promise of peace.