reveries of Swedenborg whatever they possess of vivifying and converting energy.

This doctrine, which was taught by a few sincere and simple spirits, amid the darkest gloom of Jewish superstition and bigotry, has caused one of the most true hearted believers of our own day to assert that the vital truths of Christianty are too deeply inwrought into the very nature of the human soul to be in any danger from a free and zealous examination into the true character of the Christian miracles. It is this growing conviction which is beginning to render all persecution for opinions sake as disgraceful as it ever was futile, and this it is, above all, which is teaching the instructors and guardians of youth, that the great objects of education are not to be achieved by the exhibition of facts or the inculcation of theories, but by developing and strengthening the powers of the soul for individual and independent action.

Much, though not all of this, is we think attributable more or less directly to the Germans. Much that in our own literature is but faintly and dimly shadowed forth, is in this developing itself in free and luxuriant growth. In the German literature, to use one of their own expressive phrases, "man finds himself." The "sweet sad music of humanity" per

vades every department of it. In its deep earnest philosophic spirit; in its fearless, trusting, transparent simplicity; in the holy fervor of its poets; the serene, spiritual, far-reaching gaze of its theologians and moralists, we may find much which even the rich, classical literature of England cannot supply.

To us, Germany has ever been a bright land of promise since first in early youth we listened with kindling heart and eager sympathy to the tidings which Mde. De Stael had brought us of a people, who in an age of artificiality, had dared to follow the suggestions of their own spirits and to show us nature as she had mirrored herself within their own hearts. And now, having possessed ourselves of the golden Key which is to unlock for us this rich world of thought, we cannot but glory in our new-found treasure, and endeavour to win others to become partakers of our joy.

SUGGESTED BY ALLSTON'S PICTURE OF JEREMIAH AND BARUCH IN THE PRISON.

BY SARAH S. JACOBS.

A prisoner prince! Each haughty limb

Bespeaks thy high descent;

Nor can a dungeon's gloom bedim

One noble lineament.

To fetter thee, did they not dare?
Thou can'st not be contented there

A captive with that kingly air,
Stern and magnificent.

Thou listenest a lute to hear,

Struck by some minstrel's skill;

Thou dreamest,—that strain so soft and clear
Makes thee a monarch still.

The dungeon is forgotton now,
A smile illumines lip and brow,
Again thy subjects round thee bow,
Obedient to thy will.

Methought there breathed upon my ear
In low, deep strain,
A greater than a King is here,
Look thou again!

A prisoner poet-thou the free,
The impatient of control,-

Of more than regal majesty,
The majesty of soul;-
And must thou pining linger here

Till grief her last indignant tear
Has shed: while o'er thee, year by year,

A captive's sorrows roll?

What by thy listening ear is heard?

What stirs thy poet heart?

Hath water's voice or note of bird

In that deep dream a part?

Or musest thou some noble song,
The story of thy bitter wrong,
In hurrying tide to pour along,
The triumph of thine art?

Then a whisper came-he dreameth not now
Of wood or wave;

Nor his, the patriot's burning vow,
His land to save.

A prisoner prophet-thus at last
Thy mission grand, I know;
Thine is no shadow of the past,
Nor grasp of present woe,
Thou man of destiny sublime
Over whose mind's gigantic prime

The surging waves of coming time

Successive ebb and flow;

The summer sea is not more bright,
The summer cloud more free

Than thou, all radiant with the light
Of conscious Deity.

Around thee might the thunders peal,

Beneath, the solid prison reel,
Unbroken still thy spirit's seal,

Unmoved thy gaze would be.

Thy thoughtful face, oh, scribe, with all

Its loving winningness.

Passionless intellect alone

Around the Prophet's form is thrown,

And might untold;-but all thine own
Fair youth, the happiness

To sit and listen and record

Unnoticed by his side,

And treasure every wondrous word,
With reverence dignified;

Gazing, meanwhile with earnest grace

Like some babe angel in the face

Of seraph in the Holy place,

With love and lowly pride.

MORAL SUBLIMITY ILLUSTRATED.

BY THE REV. FRANCIS WAYLAND, D. D.

PHILOSOPHERS have speculated much concerning a progress of sensation, which has commonly been denominated the emotion of sublimity. Aware

that, like any other simple feeling, it must be incapable of definition, they have seldom attempted to define it; but content with remarking the occasions on which it is excited, have told us that it arises, in general, from the contemplation of