elves--such as, the rising and
setting of the sun over the blue expanse of the waters, and the awful
majesty of the waves during a storm.' Now, if all patients were alike
impressionable, this would be sound doctrine; but, as it is, few see
the sun rise at all, many retire before the dews of evening begin to
condense, and almost all shut themselves carefully up during a storm.

The poetry of life, we need hardly say, is not associated exclusively
with the things of external nature:

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

are likewise a portion of the materials which it informs as with a
soul. For poetry does not create, but modify. It is neither passion
nor power; neither beauty nor love; but to one of these it gives
exaltation, to another majesty; to one enchantment, to another
divinity. It is not the light of 'the sun when it shines, nor of the
moon walking in brightness,' but the glory of the one, and the grace
and loveliness of the other. It is not instruction, but that which
lends to instruction a loftier character, ascending from the finite to
the infinite. It is not morality, but that which deepens the moral
impression, and sends the thrill of spiritual beauty throughout the
whole being. But its appeals, says an eloquent writer, are mainly 'to
those affections that are apt to become indolent and dormant amidst
the commerce of the world;' and it aims at the 'revival of those purer
and more enthusiastic feelings which are associated with the earlier
and least selfish period of our existence. Immersed in business,
which, if it sharpen the edge of intellect, leaves the heart barren;
toiling after material wealth or power, and struggling with fortune
for existence; seeing selfishness reflected all around us from the
hard and glittering surface of society as from a cold and polished
mirror; it would go hard with man in adversity, perhaps still more in
prosperity, if some resource were not provided for him, which, under
the form of an amusement and recreation, administered a secret but
powerful balsam in the one case, and an antidote in the other.' Poetry
elevates some of our emotions, disinters others from the rubbish of
the world, heightens what is mean, transforms what is unsightly,

Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.

It is a spiritual wine which revives the weary denizen of the vale of
tears, and softens, warms, and