ly served to render the harmony manifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements
which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He
recognizes the ambrosia, which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs
that shine in Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering
of low shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting
of the tall, Eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the
grouping of clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the
gleaming of silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the
star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of
birds, in the harp of Aeolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the
repining voice of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore,
in the fresh breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the
voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes
to him at eventide from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim
oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts,
in all unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous,
generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of
woman, in the grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the
melody of her voice, in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony
of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning
endearments, in her burning enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in
her meek and devotional endurances; but above all--ah! far above
all--he kneels to it, he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in
the strength, in the altogether divine majesty of her love.

Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem--one very
different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence, of the
poem. To do this fully, we must identify ourselves, in fancy, with the
soul of the old cavalier.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall