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The Importance of Religion to Genius.

By Grace Aguilar.

Suggested by D’Israeli’s most interesting and peculiarly pleasing work, “The Literary Character illustrated by the Lives of Men of Genius.”

Oh, what will soothe th’ emotions deep,
That o’er the soul of Genius sweep,
And ever waking vigils keep,
By night and day;
What will to them a balm impart,
Or hush to rest the throbbing heart,
Till all its keenest pangs depart,
Pale Genius, say!

What may restrain the burning fire,
The eager hope—the wild desire,
The wish for fame—the quick rous’d ire,
That mark his way;
The dearest hopes in mental breast,
That oft less gifted souls have blest,
That in his bosom find no rest;
Yet torturing stay.

Oh, what will soothe the hope so vain,
What these o’erwhelming pangs restrain,
And fill the void that will remain,
Thro’ dreary hours?
What will control the wish for praise,
The spirit from its sadness raise,
And fix the poet’s ardent gaze,
On fadeless flow’rs?

Will fame do this—the brightest fame,
That mortal man may hope to claim,
Undimm’d by e’en a speck of shame,
Remorse to call?
No! dazzling tho’, it will not fill
The void within, nor hope to still
The spirit’s ever­bounding thrill,
And rise and fall!


Or is it love—will love not check
The poet’s sure, yet hidden wreck,
And with unnumber’d blessings deck
 His onward way?
Oh, may we hope that earthly love,
The pangs of Genius will remove,
Or love like his intensely prove,
And be his stay?


No! no! or love, or fame, or joy, 
That earth can give too soon alloy,
All seem but as a fading toy, 
To smile and fly;
Alas! for Genius—if below,
He peeks to soothe his inward wo,
Or deem this world will e’er bestow
An answ’ring sigh.


Oh, there is but one Spring alone,
Whose living waters soothe each moan,
And bid the deep’ning pangs be flown,
Or give them peace!
Religion! ‘tis thy sainted shrine,
Will give to Genius bliss divine,
And joys around his brow entwine,
That ne’er shall cease.

Oh, what but thou can lull to rest
The throbbings of a bleeding breast,
And still the soul too oft oppress’d
By its own force;
Can break the dull and heavy chain,
That soaring pinions would restrain,
Yet scarce their prisoner can retain,
Or curb his course!


And oh, for that peculiar sense,
Shrinking and deep, and wild, intense,
The poet’s doom—till flies he hence,
His fetters riven,
What voice, save thine, can peace bestow,
Can calm the never-spoken wo,
And rouse the spirit’s warmest glow,
By tales of Heaven?


And if he pine for love to fill
His weary bosom’s throb and thrill,
To calm his own impassion’d will,
And bliss impart;
Oh, thou canst lead him to the Spring,
Whose love unending spreads his wing,
And gives relief to all who bring
A childlike heart.


Thou blessed spirit! to this world
In mercy sent, when sin unfurled
The blacken’d flag, and madly hurled
Defiance down;

Oh, what were man without thy power?
Changing with every passing hour,
Drooping, when tempests darkly lower,
‘Neath misery's frown.

Spirit of peace, to every heart
Thine own sweet influence to impart,
But e’en more precious, when thou art
To Genius given;
When thou unto his soul art nigh,
His every thought to purify,
And at thy feet, his crown to lie,
To shine in Heaven.