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How strangely the moon lights up the past; how one can see far-off graves by its gleam ; how it shines through the

years that are gone ; how the trinkets of memory glitter, when its ray is let in to the heart; how it reveals

'the tideless shore, Where rests the wreck of Heretofore !

I.

All Heaven is anchored off the world; and every, every

where, The silver surges of the moon make music through the air; As the stars revealed by night, as the dew-drops by the stars, So the bosom’s wordless wealth, by the moon-beam's misty

bars. Oh! sunlight for the world of things, but moonlight for the

heart! From out the dreamy shadows, how the forms of beauty

start!

II.

How they throng the halls of Thought! there an ANGEL-ONE

appears; Though I cannot see her clearly by moonlight, and for tears, I'd know that foot-fall any where, as light as summer-rain, For it sets my pulses playing, as none can do again.

III.

Ah! Thou art there, my Cynosure! I know those eyes are

thine;

No other pair would ever turn so lovingly to mine:
And now, a billow of green tu swells breathless o'er her

rest, As if it feared to wake the babe that slumbers on her breast;

IV.

The bough was bent to breaking, as the blast went sweep

ing by, But the nameless bud of beauty was wafted to the sky: And thou, fair moon! art shining on, in all thy glory yet, As if upon no fairer brow, no paler seal were set.

V.

The purling azure ever parts in music round thy prow;
As we together saw thee then, so I behold thee now.
And yet, methinks, thy deck grows dim with gray and

gathered years ; Not so, not so! untouched by time! 'Tis nothing but these

tears.

VL

I wonder not the stars are out, to see thee riding by,
And not a breath to break the blue of all that blessed sky:
There's just one cloud in all that dome of God's own starry

thoughtOne little cloud of Zephyr’s fleet, left floating there, forgot.

VII.

Though evening's sun did gild it with glories rich and rare, Yet well might Zephyr sigh again, that left that cloudlet

there; For like a banner weirdly wove in wild Campania's loom, That cloudlet's volume swells aloft, as dark and deep as

doom.

VIII,

Not all thy glory, gentle Moon! can turn that gloom to gold,
Nor all thy silver lure a star to light a single fold.
Good night, fair Moon l-good night again, pale captive to

the cloud;

I've seen a dearer light than thou, extinguished by the

shroud. That cloud is edged with silver now; its gloom is webbed

with gold; The stars shine through it every where—a pearl in every

fold!

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Rush has just come in with the paper-our paper, damp from the press. I love a newspaper—a new newspaper, and like to be the first to open it. The articles, some how, seem fresher, and wittier, and wiser, before the small folio' rustles like husks, when it comes open silently, and you can fold it precisely as you wish, and it stays folded without murmuring. The smell of damp paper and good inknot musty ink—makes one fancy it was printed for his particular perusal, and no body's else.

So another candle is placed upon the stand, the arm-chair is wheeled boldly round in front of the fire, two letters' are snuffed from the candles, the paper is opened, and I begin to-think.

The Press! Orators have lauded, poets sung, but it has lost none of its wonder; it is still a marvel

a sermon.

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and a mystery. Think of it! That a few quiverings of the empty air can float a thought or a feeling from mind to mind ; that the blue breakers can throw

up, as it were into the midst of a heart, a jewel of a hope, or fling a star of truth from the breast of a billow, into some darkened intellect, is quite strange enough for a fairy tale, and yet quite true enough for

But that the footprints of thought can be made visible upon the snowy page that they may be traced and retraced, when the Thinker is dead, and all but “the enduring produce' of his mind, a dream-this is more wonderful still. The thought that one has cherished in his bosom, until it bears his own mental image, is stamped upon the wing of the newspaper, or the page

of the volume, as it flutters from the press, and that thought finds access and hearing, where the man himself cannot venture Perhaps he is awkward, deformed, a stammerer, and a subject of ridicule; perhaps his garb is coarse, and well-worn and patched; but there stands his Thought, in the drawing room, the hall, representative of the better part of him-graceful, elegant, arrayed in rich old Saxon, welcomed, listened to, admired every where. Perhaps he has never gone beyond the blue verge

of vision, whereof his cradle was the centre :

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but that thought of his, has been borne along earth's great rivers on panting steamers, and over God's great clearings by locomotives ; even the lightnings have forgotten their thunders, and whispered the accents of his thought, as they flickered along the wire, from mart to hamlet, from hamlet to mart again. Perhaps he dies, and the swelling turf sub sides above him like a weary wave, leaving no trace of his resting place, but that thought lives on. The paper is old and torn; it wears the yellow livery of Time; Time has made it his menial; but some eye shall see it when he is dead; some memory treasure, and some mind admire. Like the bird that went forth from the ark, it is returnless ; the music of its wing is heard, when the knell for the palsied hand that sent it out, has died upon the air: it is immortal. Perhaps some nobler mind has divested it of its first array, and clothed it in cloth of gold, and transfigured and glorified, it still survives, but the same Thought still

Mighty engine, is that Press, against time. The rattle of its machinery seems to me but the first audible footfall of thought, on its sublime out-going into the world ; its mission unended, till the pitcher is broken at the last fountain of human thought, “the

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