Page:The Daughters of England.djvu/107

96 {| align=center style="font-size:smaller" From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, And hath in heaven its perfect rest; It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there."
 * Its holy flame for ever burneth,
 * }

All these ideas are excited, and all these impressions are made upon the mind through the medium of poetry. By poetry, I do not mean that vain babbling in rhyme, which finds no echo, either in the understanding or the heart. By poetry, I mean that ethereal fire, which touched not the lips only, but the soul of Milton, when he sung of

and which has inspired all who ever walked the same enchanted ground, from the father of poetry himself, down to

Thousands have felt this principle of poetry within them, who yet have never learned to lisp in numbers; and perhaps they are the wisest of their class, for they have thus the full enjoyment which poetic feeling affords, without the disappointment which so frequently attends upon the efforts of those who venture to commit themselves in verse.

Men of business, whose hearts and minds are buried in their bales of goods, and who know no relaxation from the office or the counter, except what the daily newspaper affords, are apt to conclude that poetry does nothing for them; because it never keeps their accounts, prepares their dinner, nor takes charge of their domestic affairs. Now, though I should be the last person to recommend poetry as a substitute for household economy, or to put even the