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the mantle of misty clouds, and calls upon the day-beam to arise; while those who close their eyes upon the loveliness that smiles around them, it darkens with a tenfold gloom, sharpening the thorns that lie beneath their feet, stunning the ear with the harsh tumult of discordant sounds, rousing the bellowing deep with storm and tempest, pouring the waters of bitterness upon the pleasant paths of earth, and calling upon the troubled elements to bring their tribute of despair.

What then is imagination to the good or to the evil? An angel whose protecting wings are stretched out above the pathway to the gates of heaven-a demon whose ghastly image beckons from precipice to gulf-down, down into the fathomless abyss of endless night: a gentle visitant, who brings a tribute of sweet flowers—a fearful harbinger of storms and darkness: a voice of melody that sings before us as we journey on a cry that tells of horrors yet to come: a wreath of beauty shadowing our upward gaze-a crown of thorns encircling a bleeding brow: a wilderness of verdure spread beneath our wandering steps—an adder in that verdure lurking to destroy: a comforter whose smile diffuses light-an enemy whose envenomed

arrow rankles in the heart: a joyful messenger going forth upon an embassy of love-a hideous monster howling at the gates of hell.

True to the impulse of nature, imagination rushes forth with certain aim, and never brings home sweets to the malevolent, or poison to the pure in heart; but penetrating into paths unknown, gathers riches for the supply of confidence and hope, or collecting its evidence from "trifles light as air," sharpens the pangs of envy and mistrust.

There are who treat imagination as a light to be extinguished—a power to be overcome—a demon to be exorcised. But ask the child who sits with sullen brow beneath unnatural discipline, whether imagination is not pointing to flowery paths, and stimulating his unbroken will to seek them in despite of stripes and tears. Ask the self-isolated misanthrope, when lonely and unloved he broods over the dark. future and the joyless past, whether imagination does not call up images of social comfort, of friendly intercourse, and "homefelt delight," which his sad solitude can never know. Ask the pale monk whose daily penance drags him to an early grave, whether imagination steals not with the moonbeams into his

silent cell, whispering of another heaven than that of which he reads-a heaven even upon. earth, to which a broken vow, a church in arms, a name struck out from the community of saints, are in comparison as nothing. Ask the criminal at the gallow's foot, when chains, and judges, and penitence, and priests, have done their utmost to fortify his soul for its last mortal struggle, whether imagination does not paint the picture of his cottage in the wood, with her whose prayers he has neglected, fondly watching for his return, and whether the voices of his children come not on the wandering gale, as they lift their innocent hands to heaven, and bless their father in their evening hymns.

Yes; and the stern moralist, who would strike out imagination from the soul of man, must first extinguish the principle of life. What then remains? That those who have the conduct of the infant mind, should seek to stamp it with a living impress of the loveliness of virtue, and the deformity of vice; and that the passions and affections should be so disciplined, that imagination, the busy faculty which must, and will exist, and act, either for happiness or misery, for good or evil, may

bring home to the hungry soul food fit for the nourishment of an immortal being, and dispense from out the fulness of a grateful heart, the richest tribute man can offer at the throne of God.

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POWER.

POWER, in connection with the art of writing poetry, admits of two distinctions-as it relates to language and to mind. The former, however, is always dependent upon, and subservient to the latter; but the power of mind may exist where there is little or no facility in the use of appropriate words. Were it possible. that powerful language could proceed from an imbecile mind, the effect would be, that of heaping together ponderous words, and incongruous images, so as to extend and magnify confusion, without rendering any single thought impressive.

That the force of our ideas must depend in great measure upon the strength of our impressions, is as clear, as that the vividness of a picture must depend upon the colours in which

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