few mistakes, for it is rightly interpreted by the same poetic element which exists in every human being.

As poetry originates in emotion, so through the mysterious sympathies by which we are bound together, it usually excites emotion of the same kind. Emotions are generally pleasurable. They rouse us up from the dead level of a monotonous existence, and give us a higher consciousness of our being. Hence the pleasures of poetry, hence its popularity in all ages and nations. As in its creation the mind puts forth its highest energies, so its reflex influence upon the human mind and heart is powerful to a corresponding degree. It excites the same feelings in which it had its birth, and thus, by repeated exercise it tends to give a preponderance in the character to those sentiments, feelings and passions to which it addresses itself. Hence the immeasurable moral power of poetry. It is the pioneer of civilization and improvement. It is the first articulate voice of that common inspiration which giveth man understanding. We are not to suppose that God has taken no care of that part of mankind which he has left without a supernatural revelation, that his providence

does not likewise extend to them. It is in his plan that the wise should every where instruct the ignorant, the strong should help the weak. Who but he endows the poet with an extraordinary measure of the same powers which he has conferred on all men? It was not then the reverence of superstition, but the dictate of sound reason, which has in all ages attributed inspiration to the poet, and has made poet and prophet synonymous with each other. Epimenides, a poet of Crete, is called a prophet by Paul himself.

But whatever may be the kind and degree of the inspiration of the poet, certain it is that the Creator has so constituted man, that poetry shall spring out of the better elements of his nature, shall in turn address those better elements, aid in their development, and tend to give them the predominance in the formation of his character, and the government of his conduct. Nothing bad is poetic in man. The moment the poet attempts to prostitute his noble powers to the commendation of moral obliquity, to the kindling of the baser passions, his inspiration is withdrawn, the wing of his imagination droops, and his celestial harp, though tuned to hea

venly harmonies, begins to grate harsh dis

cord.

Poetry then, is the natural language of the moral, the intellectual, the spiritual, and religious nature of man. Reason and the moral sense, though constituent elements of man, are but a small part of his nature. They are intended to guide and direct him. But there must be something in him impulsive as well as directive, otherwise he would remain for ever at rest. There are the affections, which knit our hearts to our natural connexions, to home and country. There are the passions, those hopes which naturally spring up in our minds with the consciousness of virtue, and those fears which are the natural offspring of ill desert. Then there are the sentiments, reverence for the unseen Power upon which we depend, enthusiasm for the true and the just, admiration for courage, fortitude and magnanimity. There is within us a tender and undying sympathy with human nature, a susceptibility to pleasure in the contemplation of beauty, whether in nature or art, an awe for that mysterious Holiness which seems to brood over and pervade the universe. There are besides, plea

sures of the imagination. The memory,

or

the bare conception of these realities, brings to us a sort of reflection, like the second rainbow, a milder degree of these original pleasures. Here then is the wide and beautiful domain of poetry, to express and thus to awaken the passions; to give utterance to the sentiments, and thus to refine and exalt them; to call into exercise, and thus strengthen the sympathies, to point out and delineate beauty, to call up from the buried treasures of the past the stores of memory and imagination, this is the high and glorious office of poetry, for which it has claimed and received in all ages, the highest homage of the human heart.

The first sentiment which called poetry into being was patriotism. I ought, perhaps, rather to call it an affection, for it is too strong a feeling to rank with the fainter emotions which are denominated sentiments. Few of us ever become fully aware of the strength of those ties which bind our hearts to our country. There are occasions, however, which bring it out, and show us that it dwells in the very centre of our being. We live in an age of comparative peace. We love it

for its own sake, and for the advantages it brings. We abhor the scenes of carnage and blood, of violence and plunder, which war never fails to occasion. We live, moreover, under the mild reign of the Prince of Peace. Nay, we form peace societies, and meet together and talk with rapture of a universal millenium. But let us hear that one of our fellow citizens has been wronged, or falsely imprisoned by the public authorities of a foreign nation, let us hear that our flag has been insulted or our territory invaded, and the blood boils in our veins, a spirit rises within us that nothing can repress. The ignoble advantages of trade and gain are flung to the winds as nothing worth, blood and treasure weigh but as the small dust of the balance, and the cry of war rolls like thunder from one end of the continent to the other.

If you would know the depth of the sentiment of patriotism, go travel in a foreign land, journey on day after day, week after week, and see nothing but strange men, and stranger manners, costumes, and habits. You come at length in sight of a noble city. Your eye wanders in admiration and delight over its spires, its towers, its battlements and forti