eyond the reaches of their souls; and they
mistake their own senseless stupor for solemn awe--or their own mere
physical excitement for the enthusiasm of imagination soaring through
the storm on the wings of intellect. There are such things in "Satan's
Invisible World Displayed" in poetry, as strong and dark passions; and
they who are acquainted with their origin and end call them _bad_
passions; but the good passions are not dark, but bright--and they are
strong too, stronger than death or the grave.

All human beings who know how to reap

"The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on its own heart,"

feel, by the touch, the flowers of affection in every handful of beauty
they gather up from those fortunate fields on which shines, for ever
through all seasons, the sun of life. How soft the leaves! and, as they
meet the eye, how fair! Framed, so might it seem, of green dew
consolidated into fragrance. Nor do they fade when gently taken from
their stalk on its native bed. They flourish for ever if you bruise them
not--sensitive indeed; and, if you are so forgetful as to treat them
rashly, like those of the plant that bears that name, they shrink, and
seem to shrivel for a time--growing pale, as if upbraiding your
harshness; but cherished, they are seen to be all of

"Immortal amaranth, the tree that grows
Fast by the throne of God;"

for the seeds have fallen from heaven to earth, and for eighteen hundred
years have been spreading themselves over all soils fit for their
reception--and what soil is not fit? Even fit are stony places, and
places full of thorns. For they will live and grow there in spite of
such obstruction--and among rank and matted weeds will often be seen
peering out like primroses gladdening the desert.

That voice again--"One of old Scotland's songs, so sad and slow!" Her
heart is now blamelessly with things of earth. "Sad and slow!" and most
purely sweet. Almost mournful although it be, it breathes of
happiness--for the joy dearest to the soul has ever a faint tinge of
grief. O innocent enchantress! thou encirclest us with a wavering haze
of beautiful imagery, by the spell of that voice awakening after a mood
of awe, but for thy own delight. From the long dim tracts of the past
come strangely blended recognitions of woe and bliss, undistinguishable
now to our own heart--nor knows that heart if it be a dream of
imagination or of memory. Yet why should we wonder? In o