LOVERS' VOWS.

COME, fill the flowing bowl to-night,

And wreathe it round with orange flowers,
And leaves that droop not 'neath the blight
That sometimes sweeps love's sunniest bowers;
And you whose hearts young loves beguile,
Bring smiles to grace our gay carouse,
And join in merry laughter, while

I drain the bowl to lovers' vows.

I drink to the bright, sparkling eyes
That seem in floods of joy to move,
Not to despairing, fruitless sighs,
Nor broken hearts, nor hopeless love;
But to the rich and careless curls,
That, waving, play on youthful brows,
I drink to lips enclosing pearls,
I drain the bowl to lovers' vows.

Let happiness toast joy alone,

And courage too pledge high the brave,
Drink we to hearts that, like our own,
Fear not despair's dark grave,

The emblem of eternal night.

Comrades! the pledge that joy allows,
We'll drink at least once more to-night.
Come! drain the bowl to lovers' vows.

S

TENDENCY OF GENIUS TO MELANCHOLY.

WE belong not to that class of persons who believe in the equal distribution of mind. Some are endowed by their Creator with mighty intellects, which mould every thing cast in them into forms of symmetry and beauty. The doctrine that all men are thus gifted, we think cannot be maintained.

Another class seem to have been designed by nature for some one vocation. Minds were given them of a peculiar, but of a high order. There was a province in which they were fitted to excel, and into that field the finger of Providence appears to have directed them. From the first dawnings of the mind, from the first development of the faculties, they gave indication of the niche they were destined to fill. We thus arrive at our idea of Genius. It is not the brilliant flashings of inspiration. Nor do

we, as some, conceive it to be the dazzling scintillations of an extraordinary intellect, surcharged as it were and shot off involuntarily a gift imparted by Nature in full vigor, and of which the possessor is almost unconscious. But Genius is that natural endowment which is the basis of excellence; and which, when cultivated, gains for a man distinction. Now it is frequently remarked, that minds of such a high order are tinctured with melancholy. Such intellects are thought to be like delicate instruments. When all the parts are accurately adjusted, they hold the world entranced with admiration. But so minute and sensitive are their chords, that rude hands derange them.

Is it true that Melancholy is an essential element of Genius? This trait is often confounded with a love of solitude, which the man of gifted mind tells us is a ruling passion in his soul. Sidney is said to have exclaimed, "Eagles fly alone, and they are but sheep, which always herd together." And Tasso thus depicts his love of retirement:

"From my very birth,

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth;

Of objects all inanimate I made

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers

And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise,
Where I did lay me down within the shade

Of waving trees, and dreamed uncounted hours,
Though I was chid for wandering."

Again, Beattie tells us, that

"Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled,
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped."

Milton of immortal fame, says:

"When I was yet a child, no childish play

To me was pleasing; all my mind was set
Desirous to learn and know, and thence to do
What might be public good."

Such is the nature of Genius-such the manner in which it is often developed. It delights to leave the busy haunts of men, to wander in the solitary grove, or amid Nature's gigantic structures, and contemplate her placid or her stern and rugged features. This is not Melancholy. There is a chord within that soul sensitive to the sublimities of Nature, which vibrates with

the keenest delight, a delight which kindles into rapture, as the eye gazes on the Creator's handiwork.

The gifted mind, likewise, delights in meditation. It loves to turn its thoughts from the material world inward upon itself, and with wondering, reverential awe, meditate upon its own existence, its origin, nature, and destiny. Here is opened a new world for admiration. It has dwelt, inspired with wonder and delight, upon that Power which piles up huge mountains, and scoops out tremendous caverns, which spreads the vast expanse of ocean, and lashes it into fury or calms its angry surges ; which speaks in the awful thunder, and is written in the vivid lightning; these stupendous manifestations of Power, it has surveyed with reverence and awe, but when it contemplates itself, the source of thought, it has found the last, the grandest work of Infinite Wisdom-of an Almighty Creator.

Nor does the indulgence of such thoughts generate Melancholy. It was no such emotion that dictated the beautiful lines of the contemplative Young:

1

"How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,

How complicate, how wonderful, is man!

A beam etherial, sullied and absorpt!

Though sullied and dishonored, still divine.

Dim miniature of greatness absolute.

A worm! a god!"

And the impassioned, triumphant exclamation,

"An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave,
Legions of angels can't confine me there."

Such are but the outpourings of the most exalted and exalting feelings of humanity. If a shade of gloom overspreads the mind at seeing a glorious nature, the image of God thus degraded, an etherial spirit thus sunk down to earth enthralled by ignorance and vice, it is dispelled by the thought, that the spark of its divine origin is not extinguished; and though it sheds but a feeble ray, knowledge and truth may fan it into a flame, which will burn brighter and brighter through eternity. He who justly estimates the dignity of human nature, its noble faculties, and what it may become, is "proud to call himself a man.' Contemplation like this swells the mind with delight and gratitude, and enthusiastic admiration; ennobling enjoyments, which the careless and unthinking cannot appreciate; in which they cannot sympathize; and this sweet meditative retirement they call Melancholy.

Still, making due allowance for this error, is it not true that

Genius tends to throw a shade over the mind? to present a dark picture of life and men? And cannot this be accounted for from the constitution of a refined, delicate, and sensitive mind? It is a principle worthy of being cherished, conducive to happiness and usefulness, to derive pleasure from every source of rational pleasure, to take the most cheerful views of this abode, which is destined as the land of our pilgrimage. There is enough pain and disquietude that must be experienced; and where there is a gleam of light, cherish it, fan it, and let it warm and cheer our hearts. It is to the ignorance, or, more properly, the neglect of this principle, that the Melancholy of Genius may be traced.

Perhaps one reason why the gifted mind is depressed with melancholy, is, that it finds so few congenial associates. This blessing, while it is the greatest, is one which Nature has bestowed with the most sparing hand. True, in the annals of history we hear of many brilliant intellects, and the works have been transmitted to us of many who have, in a measure, moulded the minds of all who came after them. But few of these ever enjoyed the luxury of intercourse with one another. Nature seems to have been aware that one such luminary was sufficient to enlighten the literary world, and when he set, another sun arose in the firmament of mind. At some periods, however, mankind have gazed with admiration on several stars, all of superior magnitude, shedding their lustre at the same time, though from different portions of the heavens. Men of splendid Genius rarely enjoy the pleasure of personal communion. They are usually separated from each other by time or place. The keen and sensitive mind is thus compelled to mingle with the world, and is drawn into the whirl of business. What could be less congenial with a delicate, contemplative spirit? Would such a mind pour forth to others its flashing thoughts and rapturous emotions? From ignorant and bustling men of the world it gains for its possessor the title of a senseless fanatic, and as such, he is looked upon with mingled pity and contempt. Genius withers under the finger of scorn, shrinks from the rude contact and retires within itself to seek that consolation and happiness which are denied it by a rude, unsympathizing world.

Again, the productions of Genius are not appreciated; appreciated, we mean, while the author lives. To this there have indeed been exceptions; but they are rare. The cold, fiendish spirit of selfishness must fasten its deadly fangs into the efforts, however promising, of contemporary mind, and blast them with its pestilential breath. Calumny and sarcastic criticism array themselves against every thing new in literature. Sometimes a bold and manly spirit, like that of Byron, is able to breast the

tide and leave the contest triumphant; yet every one knows how deeply and keenly, even he felt and writhed under the shafts of malice and satire, and he is said to have exclaimed, with all the enthusiasm of Genius, that the praise of the world could not suffice, while there was one, however humble, to censure. But many, like the gentle and susceptible Keats, have been laid low by the poisoned darts of criticism. Byron observes of him, in Don Juan, that he met an "untoward fate." And Shelley thus inveighs against the heartless reviewer who aimed his satire at such a young and promising mark: "Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none." And, in his plaintive Adonais, he exclaims,

"The curse of Cain

Light on his head, who pierced thy innocent breast,

And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest."

As has been observed, such is the history of many a youthful Genius. And how many have been deterred by the sorry tale, from pluming their wings, and giving utterance to their sublime emotions, we know not. But this, we must allow, is a melancholy picture to hold up before the aspiring, gifted mind. Enthusiasm and hope are constituent elements of Genius. It contemplates and admires the attributes of mind. It reflects on its exalted nature, and endeavors to conceive of its capacities expanding through eternity. It then observes the world of mind, and the ends to which it is devoted. Pleasure appears to be the god which has the most numerous and assiduous worshipers. One bends all his noble energies to the acquisition of filthy lucre. Another sets at naught the dictates of humanity, while he treads the path of unhallowed ambition. Another is prostituting his high powers to lust and sensuality, drowning all thought of the future in a round of gayety and luxury. And here and there is one who dozes away life, hardly conscious of his own existence. Genius, reflecting on the purpose for which mind was created, and the sordid ends to which this noblest of the Almighty's gifts is debased, sickens at the view. Many enthusiastic minds have, like Coleridge and Southey, projected the plan of regenerating mankind. But when they find how tightly the miser grasps his wealth-how madly the votary of ambition presses towards the goal-and with what eager fondness the voluptuary revels in his lust,-when they consider these things, the flame of hope is quenched, and enthusiasm subsides into cold indifference or misanthropy. It is true that some men