Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 13.djvu/335

1864.] The modern mind is therefore less demonstrative ; our civilization seeks less to declare and typify itself outwardly in works of Art, manners, dress, etc. Hence it is, perhaps, that the beauty of the race has not kept pace with its culture. It is less beautiful, because it cares less for beauty, since this is no longer the only reconcilement of the actual with the in- ward demands. The vice of the imagi- nation is its inevitable exaggeration. It is our own weakness and dulness that we try to hide from ourselves by this partiality. Therefore it was said that the images were the Bible of the laity. Bishop Durandus already in the thir- teenth century declared that it is only where the truth is not yet revealed that this " Judaizing " is permissible. The highest of all arts is the art of life. In this the superficial antagonisms of use and beauty, of fact and reality, dis- appear. A little gain here, or the hint of it, richly repays all the lost magnifi- cence. We need not concern ourselves lest these latter ages should be left bank- rupt of the sense of beauty, for that is but a phase of a force that is never ab- sent ; nothing can supersede it but itself in a higher power. What we lament as decay only shows its demands fulfilled, and the arts it has left behind are but the landmarks of its accomplished pur- pose.

OUR CLASSMATE.

as the rolling seasons bring

&emsp;&emsp;The hour of fate to those we love,

Each pearl that leaves the broken string

&emsp;&emsp;Is set in Friendship's crown above.

As narrower grows the earthly chain,

&emsp;&emsp;The circle widens in the sky;

These are our treasures that remain,

&emsp;&emsp;But those are stars that beam on high.

We miss&mdash;oh, how we miss!&mdash;his face,&mdash;

&emsp;&emsp;With trembling accents speak his name.

Earth cannot fill his shadowed place

&emsp;&emsp;From all her rolls of pride and fame.

Our song has lost the silvery thread

&emsp;&emsp;That carolled through his jocund lips;

Our laugh is mute, our smile is fled,

&emsp;&emsp;And all our sunshine in eclipse.

And what and whence the wondrous charm

&emsp;&emsp;That kept his manhood boy-like still,&mdash;

That life's hard censors could disarm

&emsp;&emsp;And lead them captive at his will?

His heart was shaped of rosier clay,&mdash;

&emsp;&emsp;His veins were filled with ruddier fire,&mdash;

Time could not chill him, fortune sway,

&emsp;&emsp;Nor toil with all its burdens tire.