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and the general processes of nature continuing, if possible, the same as they are now, the existence of light were withdrawn from this earth.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. + 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. + 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, 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 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; When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; 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 And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, 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, 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 + Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. 7. Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there. Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear 8. The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues 9. These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells. 10. The ocean is thy +vassal; thou dost sway Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw 11. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, Swells +tensely, and the light keel glances well 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. Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Of this their desolation; and all hearts 2. And they did live by watch-fires; and the thrones, 3. A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; 4. The flashes fell upon them; some lay down, The wild birds shriek'd, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh. 5. The meager by the meager were devour'd; The birds, and beasts, and famish'd men at bay, 6. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two 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 The world was void; The populous and the powerful was a lump, |