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4. The privation of light is rarely, if ever, total; for though the empire of time is divided in nearly equal proportion between day and night, there are comparatively few nights in which there is not diffused through the air a sufficient quantity of light for many of the purposes of life. Let us, however, suppose for a moment, that, all the faculties and recollections of man remaining unaltered, and the general processes of nature continuing, if possible, the same as they are now, the existence of light were withdrawn from this earth. What would then be the condition of mankind? How could those occupations of life be pursued, which are necessary for the supply of our simplest wants? Who, in that case, could yoke the ox to the plow, or sow the seed, or reap the harvest? But, indeed, under such a supposition, there would soon be neither seed for the ground nor grain for food; for if deprived of light, the character of vegetation is completely altered, and its results, so far as general utility is concerned, destroyed.

5. But, although this supposition of a general and total privation of light is, on all probable grounds of reasoning, inadmissible, it may yet serve to show us, indirectly, the value of the good we enjoy. It will be, however, a more grateful task to enumerate the actual benefits which we derive from the agency of light.

6. In the vegetable world, upon the products of which, animal existence ultimately depends, light is the prime mover of every change that takes place. Exclude the agency of light, and, in a short time, the most experienced botanist might possibly be at a loss to know the plant with which he is, otherwise, most familiar, so completely obliterated are all its natural characters, whether of color, form, taste, or odor. If a branch of ivy or of any spreading plant, penetrate, during the progress of its vegetation, into a dark cellar or any similar subterraneous situation, it is observable, that, with the total loss of color, its growth advances with great rapidity, but its proportions alter to such a degree, as often to mask its original form; and, if it be chemically examined, its juices-it might almost be said, its whole substance-would be found to consist of little else than mere water; and whatever odor it may have, is characteristic, not of its original nature, but of its unnatural mode of growth.

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7. The total result is, that all the native beauties and uses of a vegetable growing under these circumstances, are lost. The eye is neither delighted by any variety or brightness of color, nor is the sense of smell gratified by any fragrance; the degeneracy of its +fiber into mere pulp, renders it unfit for any mechanical purpose; and the resinous and other principles, upon which its + nutritive and medicinal virtues depend, cease to be developed.

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8. The observation of those modifications which light undergoes when reflected from the surfaces of bodies, has given rise to

one of those impressive arts, which are capable of contributing no less to the refinement of society at large, than to the gratification of the individuals who cultivate or admire them. For who can look on the productions of such masters as Guido, Raphael, or Michael Angelo, without +imbibing a portion of the spirit which animated those masters in the execution of their inimitable works? Or, who can successfully describe those emotions which are excited by the portrait of a beloved object, a child or parent, now no more? or by the representation of that home and its surrounding scenery, in which the careless and happy hours of childhood were passed?

KIDD.

LESSON CXXXI.

APOSTROPHE TO THE SUN.

1. CENTER of light and energy! thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne,
Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,

Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first wakened airs of earth had blown,

On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light;

Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown

Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,

And yet, thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright.

2. Thy path is high in heaven; we can not gaze
On the tintense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar,
To mingle with the equal light of star;
For thou, so vast to us, art, in the whole,

One of the sparks of night that fire the air;

And, as around thy center planets roll,

So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.

3. Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;

Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn;
Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne;
Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn
Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;

All, that was once so beautiful, is torn

By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,

And, in their maddening rush, the tcrested mountains shake.

4. The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;

Life lingers, and would die, but thy return

Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow

Of all the power, that brooded in the urn

Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there

Rich waves of gold, to wreath with fairer light the fair

5. The vales are thine: and when the touch of Spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light
They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing
Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright,
And widens outward to the pebbled shore:

The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and toozy beds, look upward and adore.

6. The hills are thine: they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf and drinks the stream,
That flows from out thy fullness, as a flood
Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food

Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow and give brighter tints, than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

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Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays.

7. Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky

Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie

Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there.
And when below thy hues of beauty die,

Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear
Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair

8. The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues
Are penciled by thee; when thou bendest low
Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues
Their waving folds with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw
Shame on the proudest art.

9. These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march;
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form, with perfect curve, a lifted line,
Striding the earth and air; man looks and tells
How Peace and Mercy in its beauty shine,
And how the heavenly messenger impels

Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells.

10. The ocean is thy +vassal; thou dost sway
His waves to thy dominion, and they go

Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way,
Rising and falling in eternal flow:

Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow,
And take them wings, and spring aloft in air,

And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw
Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear
The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

11. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell.
Oh! with a gifted joy no tongue can tell,
I hurry o'er the waters when the sail

Swells +tensely, and the light keel glances well
Over the curling billow, and the gale

Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

PERCIVAL.

LESSON CXXXII.

DARKNESS.

1. I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went, and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions, in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light.

2. And they did live by watch-fires; and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings, the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch.

3. A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire; but, hour by hour,
They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash; and all was black.
The brows of men, by the unearthly light,
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

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The flashes fell upon them; some lay down,
And hid their eyes, and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clinched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again,
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth, and howl'd.

The wild birds shriek'd,

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless: they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; a meal was bought
With blood, and each sat sullenly apart,
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought, and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails; men

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh.

5. The meager by the meager were devour'd;
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

The birds, and beasts, and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress, he died.

6. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,

And they were enemies; they met beside

The dying embers of an altar-place,

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

For an unholy usage: they raked up,

And, shivering, scraped with their cold, skeleton hands, The feeble ashes, and they made a flame

Which was a mockery; then, they lifted up

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

Each other's aspects: saw, and shriek'd, and died:

Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

Unknowing who he was, upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend.

The world was void;

The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless;
A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay.

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