proud ships sat in swan-like beauty on its bosom, and on the scene the glorious sun was looking down, as if rejoicing in his noon-tide strength and dazzling beams. At this bright hour, O horror! what a sight did he behold! A deep and awful darkness veiled the sky; the sun put on a robe of sable hue, and noon, serenest noon, was in a moment turned to darkest midnight. Thunders, now, are bellowing in the air; the lurid lightning gleams athwart the sky; the heavens now glow like furnace-fires, and now they change to hues of blood, and from the rolling, tossing clouds the burning embers fall like countless drops in heavy showers. Yonder, a castle towering high is wrapped in fire; the flames are wreathing round the tapering masts, and thence they cleave their fiery way through tangled wood, o'er fertile plain, and girt the distant city with a wall of fire. To aggravate the horrors of the scene, the ocean groans and heaves its swelling breast, as if the sea-god's dying struggle had come on. Earth, too, throws open wide her fearful jaws, writhing in agony most bitter, as darts the fierce earthquake through her numerous veins. It was an awful spectacle. For a moment no man to his neighbor spoke. All stood still in dread suspense, and fear and trembling seized the stoutest hearts. The bonds of Friendship and Relationship, Envy and Ambition, Hatred and Lust, were all forgotten. As men thus paused irresolute, unknowing what to think, or what to do, suddenly, from out the darkened heavens bursts forth a brighter and more dazzling light than human eye had ever seen, or human thought conceived; a light, subduing in intensity the lightning's and the conflagration's lurid glare. This It is the cross, the cross all radiant with light and glory. Ah! then the truth first flashed upon the minds of the bewildered mass. was the herald of the Son of Man. This was the signal hung from heaven that the great day of wrath had come; and, oh, they seemed to say to Heaven and to each other, "Who, who shall abide its coming?" Then, many a manly cheek turned deadly pale with strange unwonted fear, and icy coldness ran through many a heart, and in full many a throbbing breast hope died forever. Confusion, then, was worse confounded, and fear became more fearful still, while horrid shrieks, and direful wails, and sad unearthly groans, escaped from those who knew the hour of retribution was at hand. Yonder, frantic with terror, a young and sweet confiding wife has fled to her loved husband's warm embrace,-her last, her only refuge,and he, impulsively, has clasped her to his bosom, torn with unutterable anguish. He looks upon the cross, and feels that he must fly, must have some refuge, but where, oh, where? Upon the cherished idol of his heart he turns one agonizing glance, thinks of himself, and, feeling that a double death awaits him, he turns instinctively to flee, he knows not, cares not whither. Beside them kneel two lovely ones in penitence and humble prayer, while in their souls, uprising, swells the full tide of holy love, and on their brows sits radiant Hope, and from their countenances beams the light of sweet assuring Faith. Nearer, in the foreground, is a sadder contrast still. It is a princely group, now terror-stricken by the cross, as was Belshazzar viewing the writing of the armless hand. Alas! for that father and that king, who looks so full of rage and agony and despair, because from his grasp honor and power and fortune all have vanished in a moment, leaving him nought of his splendor and his joy, save the cold marble step on which he sits amazed. Nor is this all to deepen his despair, and add to his chagrin, his lovely and beloved daughter flies to him, at this dread hour, for succor, and buries deep her beauteous face within the ample folds of his flowing purple robe. But, oh, he cannot save or help himself, much less the idol of his heart. Just then his manly son approaches, and lays one heavy hand upon that father's shoulder, pointing with the other to the cross-the cross he had neglected, and, perchance, the cross that father long had taught him to neglect and to despise. With an expression of mingled wrath and hatred, disappointment and remorse, he gazes now upon that shining light. He loathes it heartily, and yet a thousand worlds, did he possess them, would be as nothing in his esteem, could they bedim its fast-increasing splendor, or save him from his awful, conscious doom. He knows it is vain, for the last sands of time are running fast, and more intensive as that light becomes, so round his soul doth gather thick the darkness of eternal night. Beside him kneels his doating wife, with clasped hands and upturned eye, the visible tokens of the deep struggle in her soul, as now she breathes a prayer for those she dearly loves. Joy fills her heart with prospects of unspeakable and unending bliss. Nor is she quite alone. Her faithful son has also bowed him low in humble adoration of that God, whom, by a mother's fervent prayers and flowing tears, he was thus early led to love, to worship, and obey. Near to this company is the Atheist, the God-defying, God-denying Atheist, who, in his folly and his pride, had ever said, "Who is the Almighty that I should serve him? Yes, he who had tauntingly so often asked, respecting Christ, "Where is the promise of his coming?" felt now, the hour had come. Filled with consternation and dismay, prostrate he lies upon the ground, and seeks to hide him from the sunlight of that hated cross, and raises high his mortal arm, that hath so oft defied Omnipotence, as if he still would stay the on-coming vengeance. Not so the pious widow by his side, who looks as calmly up to heaven, as if she even now were tasting of that joy which ever dwells within the heavenly courts. Her little one instinctively hath clasped the mother's arm in ignorant sympathy with her; and near her side another daughter nestles close, as though that were her only hidingplace. She gazes on them both in love, then turns to heaven, and seems to say, in confidence, There is my God, my refuge in all trouble; I will not fear, though the heavens be removed, and though the earth shall melt away. Among the stricken throng there lay the Sensualist, oppressed with guilt, and by his side his victim lay disrobed, distorted, a sad and fearful sight, both wretched from untold remorse. There, with her daughter fair, stood Vanity, in elegant and gay attire, and stretched her snow-white hands toward heaven imploringly for mercy. Here stands the Debauchee, o'erwhelmed with guilt, turning his face away from light so pure and bright, and seeking now the darkness he hath loved so well, he hides his crimsoned cheek within his purple robe, as though no eye could there behold his shame. Behind a broken column sits the old decrepit Miser, bending beneath the weight of years, all wrinkled up with care, with heart all steeled to earthly sympathies and joys, clasping his urn of hoarded gold close pressed upon his heart, as if no power could wrest from him the object of his wedded love. All tremble with unearthly fear. Some cry aloud for mercy, lashed to madness by conscience's scorpion stings; some tear their flowing hair in agony of grief; while others sit amazed, confounded, full of terror and dismay, looking for judgment and fiery indignation. At this dread hour, strange as it may appear, the smooth-tongued, cunning Sophist is not awed to silence. Ascending the steps of a temple near where he stood, with impious and blasphemous words he scorned the power of heaven's King, and with his wonted oily speech now urged the listening throng to follow him, and disregard the gleaming cross. While thus he spake, a dark cloud passed above, and from its bosom shot a flame that pierced his heart, and rived his cursing tongue, and left him thus a loathsome, blackened corpse. Ŏn yonder hill-top, a multitude of wretched ones have gathered round an ancient altar-pile, and lighted once again its fires that had so long been quenched, and from its summit now wreathes up the smoke of incense sweet, an offering vain to stay the doom but just at hand. Apart from this dense crowd, some cry unto the rocks and to the mountains dark to fall upon and hide them from the glory of that cross, and from the presence of the Lamb. But more there are who throng the entrance to an open cave, hoping to find, perchance, some shelter from the storm of hot, avenging wrath Apart from all things else, there stood a temple of the living God. Many an anxious eye was turned towards its massive doors, once open wide, now firmly closed; and many a saddened heart grew sick from bitter, self-condemning thought, and vainly sighed that they, in time, had not, within that sanctuary, found the soul's secure and calm repose. The tumult now is stilled! Silence pervades the myriad throng! Hushed are all sighs, stifled all groans, and dried all tears, and from the glazed eye withdrew the filmy veil of death; for see! the portals 1 wide unfold, again are Zion's gates unbarred, and thither now they wildly rush, with leap and shout and frantic joy, that still there's hope. But, oh! delusive hope! A moment more, and back they fall in sad dismay, and with as wild, despairing shriek as fallen angels gave when hurled to Hades' depths, they sank upon the ground to die! Then came the triumph of the cross. In the midst of all this fierce uproar and strange confusion-the fast-dissolving mountains-the retiring sea-the melting elements-the shrieks, the groans, the wails of earth's teeming millions-calm and dignified, and with a smile of heavenly rapture on her countenance, all beauteous and lovely, clad in fine linen, pure and white, came forth the Church of Christ on earth, the heavenly Bride, beloved of the Lamb. Around her brow serene and fair was twined a wreath of everlasting joy, and in her hands she waved bright palms of victory and glory, and thus she hailed the shining cross, the herald of her coming Lord, ready now to dwell within that city whose foundations are forever sure, in which nor sun nor moon doth ever shine, for there the Lamb is all the light thereof—to which shall come the glory and the honor of the nations-where tears shall all be wiped from every eye, and sorrow and sighing be forevermore unknown. In rapturous joy at such a blessed consummation, Annelli awoke. But from his memory fades not his dream, till he had transferred its strange realities, from the tablet of his soul, to the speaking, life-like canvas. Z. COLERIDGE AND SHELLEY IN THE VALE OF CHAMONNY. E We have two poems of about the same length, written amid the inspiration of the same majestic scenery. Between the two authors, the task of assigning the preference in respect of native poetic talent were no less difficult than invidious. And yet between these two short poems, there is no room for comparison whatever. Shelley's is as inferior to Coleridge's as Campbell's Hohenlinden is to Byron's Waterloo. There is a magnificent march about the progress of Coleridge's Hymn as he sweeps on to the great truth of which every succeeding line appears to intensify the majesty. Shelley, on the contrary, sets before us a panorama of brilliant and imposing imagery; but it is the splendor of a cloud-castle, impressive while we gaze upon it, leaving no distinct conception upon the mind. He leads us to contemplate a most overwhelming manifestation of the power of the Most High. He tells us in burning words, of the deep emotions with which his soul responds to the voices of the contending elements. But when we would rise Through Nature up to Nature's God, when we would hear from his lyre fit strains wherewith to praise the great Architect, he sends us coldly away with dim and vapory imaginings of some unknown power,-poor compensation for communion with the Omnipotent! But Coleridge has no thoughts to waste on idle creations of his own. He gives himself to an inspiration, prompted by the works of God. Before the immediate presence of Jehovah all inferior conceptions flit unheeded by, and his soul bows listening to the praises which nature render to her Lord. Whether or not Shelley intends to recognize the Author of nature, we will not pretend to say; but if so, it is a sort of spectral abstraction, and finds no sympathy in any breast but that of the poet. Here is Shelley: All things that move and breathe with toil and sound, Are born and die, revolve, subside and swell Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, Remote, serene and inaccessible. The secret strength of things * Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome And here is Coleridge : Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Coleridge has no ethereal conception of a personified attribute with which to amuse us. He is not afraid of the simple and yet mysterious title by which the Deity is known at every fireside,-God! We ask, in the awful presence of Mont Blanc, for the Author of the scenes which surround us. Who reared the everlasting pillars of the temple and gilded its arches with rainbows, and filled its aisles with the swell and cadence of a thunder-organ? And we are referred to that name, the loveliness of which as much attracts the affections as its majesty impresses the imagination;—to the same Great Being whose name we learned to lisp in infancy,-whom we have been taught to address with humble confidence as the Common Father,-who guides our steps amid the dangers of the day, and guards our rest amid the silence of the night. We confess there is no more interesting sight to us than genius consecrated to religion. It can indeed bring to the common altar of our Faith, no new evidences of a divine origin. The Author of Christianity has not sent it forth into the world, so poorly panoplied against its enemies as to depend for attestation of its truth on the favorable judgment of human intellects. It must stand upon its own merits. But we |