stimulates, without the reaction of
material cordials. 'It gives him wings,' says another writer, 'and
lifts him out of the dirt; and leads him into green valleys; and
carries him up to high places, and shews him at his feet the earth and
all its glories.'

The poetry of life, therefore, although one of those expressions that
baffle definition, points to something of vast importance to the
happiness of men and the progress of the race. It is no idle dream, no
mere amusement of the fancy. Whenever we feel a generous thrill on
hearing of a great action--that is poetry. Whenever we are conscious
of a larger and loftier sympathy than is implied in the exercise of
some common duty of humanity--that is poetry. Whenever we look upon
the hard realities of life through a medium that softens and relieves
them--that medium is poetry. Without poetry, there is no loftiness in
friendship, no devotedness in love. The feelings even of the young
mother watching her sleeping child till her eyes are dim with
happiness, are one half poetry. Hark! there is music on the evening
air, always a delightful incident in the most delightful scene; and
here there are ruins, and woods, and waters, all the adjuncts of a
picture. This is beauty; but if we breathe over that beauty the spirit
of poetry, see what a new creation it becomes, and what a permanent
emotion it excites!

The splendour falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits, old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying;
Blow bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going;
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky!
They faint on field, and hill, and river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes answer, dying, dying, dying.[2]

This is a sample of the spiritual wine we have talked of--something to
elevate and intoxicate. But the picture it presents does not pass away
in the reaction of the morning. It haunts us in all after-life, rising
up before us in the pauses of the wo