OLD TIMES. BY J. U. U.
Reading edition
“My soul is full of other times!”
Where is that spirit of our prime, The good old day! Have the life and power of that honoured time All passed away! When old friendship breathed, and old kindness wreathed The cot and castle in kindred claim, And the tie was holy of service lowly, And Neighbour was a brother’s name, And the streams of love and charity Flowed far and wide, And kind welcome held the portal free To none denied, And blessed from far rose that kindly star The high roof o’er the well-known hall, The cordial hearth, the genial mirth— Has Time the tyrant stilled them all! Ay, some are fallen—their courts are green; The cold calm sky Looks in on many a once-loved scene Of days gone by. And some stand on, but their lights are gone, Their manners are new and their masters strange; They know no trace of that frank old race Swept off by the tide of time and change. These would’st thou mourn, go, trace the path, The far wild road, To some old hill where ruin hath Its lone abode— Where morn is sleeping, and dank dews weeping— Where the grey moss grows on the lintel stone— Where the raven haunts, and the wild weed flaunts, And old remembrance broods alone: There weep—for generous hearts dwelt there, To pity true— Each light and shade of joy and care These old walls knew. With weary ray the eye of day Looks lifeless on their mouldering mound: Their pride is blighted!—but the sun ne’er lighted A happier home in his bright round. There smiles, whose light hath passed away, Bound young hearts fast; And hope gilt many a coming day Now long, long past. There was beauty’s flower and manhood’s power— The frail, proud things in which mortals trust; And yon hall was loud with a merry crowd Of breasts long mingled in the dust. There too the poor and weary sought Relief and rest; His song the wandering harper brought, A welcome guest; There lay rose lightly, and young eyes shone brightly, And in sunshine ever life’s stream rolled on: And no thought came hither how time could wither— Yet time stole by, and they are gone. And there—the breast were cold indeed That would not feel, How with the same relentless speed Our seasons steal. The princely towers and pleasant bowers May scoff the hours with gallant show, In vain—they are what once these were, And in their turn must lie as low.
The Beautiful in Nature and Art.—In looking at our nature, we discover among its admirable endowments the sense or perception of beauty. We see the germ of this in every human being; and there is no power which admits greater cultivation: and why should it not be cherished in all? It deserves remark, that the provision for this principle of the creation which we can turn into food and clothes, or gratification for the body; but the whole creation may be used to minister to the sense of beauty. Beauty is an all-pervading presence; it unfolds the numberless flowers of the spring; it waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass; it haunts the depth of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone; and not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple, and those men who are alive to it cannot lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side. Now, this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it, as if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the choicest picture of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child, ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I regret their privation; how should I want to open their eyes; and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice? But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature; but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now no man receives the true culture of a man in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded. Of all luxuries, this is the cheapest and most at hand; and it seems to be most important to those conditions where coarse labour tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of refined gratifications which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few.—Channing.