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considerable mental capacities. Though his nature was haughty and disdainful towards individuals, yet as to political communion, his ambition was by no means purely self-seeking and egotistic, like that of the elder Dionysius. Animated with vehement love of power, he was at the same time penetrated with that sense of regulated polity and submission of individual will to fixed laws, which floated in the atmosphere of Grecian talk and literature, and stood so high in Grecian morality. He was, moreover, capable of acting with enthusiasm, and braving every hazard in prosecution of his own convictions.

Born about the year 408 B. C., Dion was twenty years of age in 387 B. C., when the elder Dionysius, having dismantled Rhegium and subdued Kroton, attained the maximum of his dominion, as master of the Sicilian and Italian Greeks. Standing high in the favour of his brother-in-law Dionysius, Dion doubtless took part in the wars whereby this large dominion had been acquired; as well as in the life of indulgence and luxury which prevailed generally among wealthy Greeks in Sicily and Italy, and which to the Athenian Plato appeared alike surprising and repulsive. That great philosopher visited Italy and Sicily about 387 B. C. He was in acquaintance and fellowship with the school of philosophers called Pythagoreans; the remnant of the Pythagorean brotherhood, who had once exercised so powerful a political influence over the cities of those regions, and who still enjoyed considerable reputation, even after complete political downfall, through individual ability and rank of the members, combined with habits of recluse study, mysticism, and attachment among themselves.

With these Pythagoreans Dion also, a young man of open mind and ardent aspirations, was naturally thrown into communication by the proceedings of the elder Dionysius in Italy. Through them he came into intercourse with Plato, whose conversation made an epoch in his life.

The mystic turn of imagination, the sententious brevity, and the mathematical researches of the Pythagoreans, produced doubtless an imposing effect upon Dion; just as Lysis, a member of that brotherhood, had acquired the attachment and influenced the sentiments of Epaminondas at Thebes. But Plato's power of working upon the minds of young men was far more impressive

and irresistible. He possessed a large range of practical experience, a mastery of politi cal and social topics, and a charm of eloquence, to which the Pythagoreans were strangers. The stirring effects of the Socratic talk, as well as of the democratical atmosphere in which Plato had been brought up, had developed all the communicative aptitude of his mind; and great as that aptitude appears in his remaining dialogues, there is ground for believing that it was far greater in his conversation. Brought up as Dion had been at the court of Dionysiusaccustomed to see around him only slavish deference and luxurious enjoyment-unused to open speech or large philosophical discussion-he found in Plato a new man exhibited, and a new world opened before him.

He

As the stimulus from the teacher was here put forth with consummate efficacy, so the predisposition of the learner enabled it to take full effect. Dion became an altered man both in public sentiment and in individual behaviour. He recollected that, twenty years before, his country, Syracuse, had been as free as Athens. He learned to abhor the iniquity of the despotism by which her liberty had been overthrown, and by which subsequently the liberties of so many other Greeks in Italy and Sicily had been trodden down also. He was made to remark that Sicily had been half barbarized through the foreign mercenaries imported as the despot's instruments. conceived the sublime idea or dream of rectifying all this accumulation of wrong and suffering. It was his first wish to cleanse Syracuse from the blot of slavery, and to clothe her anew in the brightness and dig nity of freedom, yet not with the view of restoring the popular government as it had stood prior to the usurpation, but of estab lishing an improved constitutional polity, originated by himself, with laws which not only secure individual rights, but also educate and moralize the citizens. The function which he imagined to himself. and which the conversation of Plato suggested, was not that of a despot like Dionysius, but that of a despotic legislator Lycurgus, tak ing advantage of a momentary omnipotence, conferred upon him by grateful citizens in a state of public confusion, to originate a good system, which, when once put in motion, would keep itself alive by fashioning the minds of the citizens to its own intrinsic excellence.

GEORGE GROTE

THE VOYAGE.

[HEINRICH HEINE, a German poet and critic, of very trenchant though unequal powers, born at Düsseldorf in 1797, died at Paris in 1856. Heine's Werke have been collected in seven volumes, Philadelphia, 1857. His best productions are the "Reisebilde or Pictures of Travel," and his songs. His style is often brilliant and witty, with a persistent undercurrent of melancholy, and traces of suffering and disappointment.]

As at times the moonbeam pierces

Through the thickest cloudy rack, So to me, through days so dreary, One bright image struggles back.

Seated all on deck, we floated

Down the Rhine's majestic stream; On its borders, summer-laden,

Slept the peaceful evening gleam.

Brooding, at the feet I laid me
Of a fair and gentle one,
On whose placid, pallid features
Played the ruddy-golden sun.

Lutes were ringing, youths were singing, Swelled my heart with feelings strange; Bluer grew the heaven above us,

Wider grew the spirit's range.

Fairy-like beside us flitted

Rock and ruin, wood and plain; And I gazed on all reflected In my loved one's eyes again.

THE LORE-LEI.

I know not whence it rises, This thought so full of woe; But a tale of times departed Haunts me, and will not go.

The air is cool, and it darkens,

And calmly flows the Rhine, The mountain-peaks are sparkling In the sunny evening-shine.

And yonder sits a maiden,

The fairest of the fair;
With gold is her garment glittering,
As she combs her golden hair:

With a golden comb she combs it;
And a wild song singeth she,
That melts the heart with a wondrous
And powerful melody.

The boatman feels his bosom

With a nameless longing move: He sees not the gulfs before him, His gaze is fixed above;

Till over boat and boatman

The Rhine's deep waters run: And this, with her magic singing, The Lore-lei has done! HEINRICH HEINR

THE EMIGRANTS.

[FERDINAND FREILIGRATH, a German poet and republican, born at Detmold, 1810, died in 1876. His early poems, full of the spirit of liberty, brought him prosecution, and a long exile, spent in London. Returning in 1848, he shared in the revolution which ran over Europe in that year. He was imprisoned, tried, and though acquitted, forced to leave his native country. Besides his own poems, many of which have a fine Oriental coloring, and exhibit rich imagination, he has made fine translations of Victor Hugo's poems, of Burns, and a selection of the American poets.]

I cannot take my eyes away

From you, ye busy, bustling band! Your little all to see you lay

Each, in the waiting seaman's hand!

Ye men, who from your necks set down The heavy basket, on the earth,

Of bread from German corn, baked brown By German wives, on German hearth!

And you, with braided queues so neat, Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown How careful on the sloop's green seat You set your pails and pitchers down!

Ah! oft have home's cool, shady tanks These pails and pitchers filled for you: On far Missouri's silent banks,

Shall these the scenes of home renew.

The stone-rimmed fount in village street, That as ye stooped, betrayed your smiles; The hearth and its familliar seat;

The mantle and the pictured tiles.

Soon, in the far and wooded West,

Shall log-house walls therewith be graced; Soon, many a tired, tawny guest

Shall sweet refreshment from them taste.

From them shall drink the Cherokee,
Faint with the hot and dusty chase;

No more from German vintage ye
Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned
grace.

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[THOMAS PARNELL, born in Ireland, 1679, a brilliant wit and poet, educated in Dublin, and after a distinguished career in London, determined to revisit Ireland, but died at Chester on his way to Ireland, and was interred there (as the register of Trinity Church states) on the 18th of October, 1718. Parnell was an accomplished scholar and a delightful companion. His Life was written by Goldsmith, who was proud of his distinguished Jountryman, considering him the last of the great school that had modelled itself upon the ancients. Parnell's works are of a miscellaneous nature-translations, songs, hymns, epistles, etc. His most celebrated piece is "The Hermit," familiar to most readers from their infancy. Pope pronounced it to be "very good;" and its sweetness of diction and picturesque solemnity of style must always please. His "Night-piece on Death," was indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's celebrated "Elegy;" but few men of taste or feeling will subscribe to such an opinion. In the "Night-piece," Parnell meditates among the tombs. Tired with poring over the pages of schoolmen and sages, he sallies out at midnight to the churchyard.]

How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie;
While through their ranks in silver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.

That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread,
Above the venerable dead.

"Time was, like thee, they life possessed,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest."
Those with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame-
Which, ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away-
A middle race of mortals own,

Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great,
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.

THE HERMIT.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from men, with God he passed his
days,

Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey;
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending
grow,

And skies beneath with answering colours glow;

But, if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by
sight,

To find if books, or swains, report it right-
For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly
dew-

He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,

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And, "Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied.

Words followed words, from question answer flowed,

And talk of various kind deceived the road;
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature, in silence, bid the world repose, When, near the road, a stately palace rose. There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass,

Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass.

It chanced the noble master of the dome
Still made his house the wandering stranger's
home;

Yet stiil the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they
drown,

Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down,

At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.

Up rise the guests, obedient to the call,

An early banquet decked the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to

taste.

Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go;

And, but the landlord, none had cause of

woe;

His cup was vanished; for in secret guise, The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.

As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray,

Disordered stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;

So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner shewed.
He stopped with silence, walked with trem-
bling heart,

And much he wished, but durst not ask to part;

Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard

That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,

The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ;

A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair re

treat

To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around;

Its owner's temper timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy door they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began,

And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders

ran;

Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,

Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain.

At length some pity warmed the master's breast

'Twas then his threshold first received a guest

Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervour through their limbs re-
calls;

Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wineEach hardly granted-served them both to dine;

And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark, the pondering hermit
viewed,

In one so rich, a life so pure and rude;
And why should such-within himself he
cried-

Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? But what new marks of wonder soon take place

In every settling feature of his face.

When, from his vest, the young companion bore

That cup, the generous landlord owned be- | Perplexed with roads; a servant shewed the fore,

And paid profusely with the precious bowl,
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
The sun emerging, opes an azure sky;
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day;
The weather courts them from their poor re-
treat,

And the glad master bolts the weary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom
wrought

With all the travail of uncertain thought:

His partner's acts without their cause appear; 'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness

here:

Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky;
Again the wanderers want a place to lie;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great;
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind.
Hither the walkers turn their weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet.
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest
guise,

The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer!"
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall re-
pair,

Warned by a bell, and close the hour with
prayer.

At length the world, renewed by calm repose,
Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near a closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck: the landlord's little
pride,

O strange return! grew black, and gasped,
and died!

Horror of horrors! what! his only son!
How looked our hermit when the fact was
done!

way;

A river crossed the path; the passage o'eer
Was nice to find; the servant trod before;
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath them bending
glide.

The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin,
Approached the careless guide, and thrust
him in ;

Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the

46

dead.

While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,

He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries:
Detested wretch!"-but scarce his speech
began,

When the strange partner seemed no longer
man!
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turned white and flowed upon his
feet;

;

Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair:
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glittered on the
day,

Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all its majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do;
Surprise, in secret chains, his word suspends,
And in a calm, his settling temper ends;
But silence here the beauteous angel broke-
The voice of music ravished as he spoke!

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice
unknown,

In sweet memorial rise before the throne:
These charms success in our bright region
find,

And force an angel down, to calm thy mind;
For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky;
Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.
Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
The Maker justly claims that world He made:
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends,
On using second means to work his ends
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The power exerts his attributes on high;
Your action uses, nor controls your will,

Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder | And bids the doubting sons of men be still. part,

And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.

Confused, and struck with silence at the
deed,

He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed;
His steps the youth pursues: the country lay

What strange events can strike with more surprise,

Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?

Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just,

And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust.

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