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the tombs of Paria; but there, around them, within those walls of crystal, they stand forth in the day; death without its moulder, life without its motion, only waiting the whisper of Omnipotence to breathe, and come down from their pedestals, and utter an IONIC welcome to the throng. The HAND had rolled away the stone from the door of the sepulchre, and unravelled with the graver the marble shrouds, and gently beat upon the breast till it started an echo within, and the muscles rounded anew, and the bosom was like a billow, and the lips parted, and the WORLD listened with their eyes.
Loftiest eloquence-nay, a Prophet's hallowed lips, could not bid the temple-veil of Heaven be rent, that the great fabric woven in the loom of GoD should obey, and swing slowly aside. But there, about them, are strewn Telescopes, those lidless, tearless, sleepless Eyes, the HAND has burnished and brought near that dim curtain, and looked through the loosely-woven threads, sparkling out with stars, like dews upon the spider's web, and seen the burning torches that blaze round the base of the Throne; seen and lived.
And so, every where beneath that dome, from the tapestry, fragrant with its budded flowers, and the
Dacca lace of India, the 'woven air' of the Orient, to the magic powder that quickens the dull pulses of Mother Earth into glowing thoughts of summer, and the thing that champs the steel as the fawn crops the roses, are evidences of the eloquence of the Hand that true KALEIDOSCOPE of the world, wherein fragments the humblest, and material the paltriest, become at every motion, new forms of beauty, new combinations of power, new aids for man, in this HOLY ALLIANCE of the Head, the Heart, and the Hand.
'ANOTHER COMET.' So our Editor has, at last, discovered a Comet in the-newspapers, and treats his readers to a dessert of horrors possible and probable, provided, as the lawyers say, the illustrious stranger ungallantly comes in collision with our dear, dusky Mother.
What these hirsute foreigners are doing in our offing, no body precisely, and precisely no body, knows, inasmuch as they never send their papers ashore, nor take a pilot on board, nor run up a flag, nor fire a salute, nor any thing else usual upon the high seas. Our Sun with his glorious retinue, is moving among the starry isles, in this great Archipelago of God,
towards the dim north-west. And the Sun is a King, and the Planets are his train. And who knows that these comets are not his couriers, sent out along the great highway-sent out, some of them, before we were born; some of them when time began-returning now and then, with the tidings, 'The way is clear! Move on!' And so he does move sublimely on, in an orbit, a fragment of whose arc, no human intellect has ever grasped.
Wandering they may be, but not lost,' for their routes and times-are they not all recorded in the books of the Admiralty of high Heaven? Then, here's to
The New Craft in the Offing.
'Twas a beautiful night on a beautiful deep,
And the man at the helm had just fallen asleep,
And the watch of the deck, with his head on his breast,
'A sail! ho! a sail!' 'Where away?' 'No'th-no'th-west?'
There, indeed, is the stranger, the first in these seas,
Not a rag or a ribbon adorning her spars,
She has saucily sailed by 'the red planet MARS;'
She has doubled,' triumphant, the Cape of the SUN,
Now, a flag at the fore and the mizzen unfurled,
'Helm a-port!' 'Show a light! She will run us aground!' 'Fire a gun!' 'Bring her to!' 'Sail a-hoy! Whither
'Avast there! ye lubbers! Leave the rudder alone:
Where each cloud that can trail, and each wave that can
Where each planet is cruising, each star is at rest,
BUT there is a brace of coffins' in the candles; the back-stick has fallen to pieces; the frost is creeping up the window-panes; the two hands of the clock are pointing the way to Heaven; the paper has rustled down to my feet; so-GOOD NIGHT!
Riding on a Bail.
THE other day I shot into town, on the Michigan Southern Railway Train. The engine was wellnamed-FLYING CLOUD; for a flying cloud it was, scudding before the magical tempest, through the woods and round the sweeping shores of old Michigan.
And a wonderful thing is that Engine, when we think of it; the emblem and exponent of the hour; the thing of iron and of fire; with a banner of light and an eye like a star; with sinews of brass and steel; and breathings of flame. It is impatient to go forth to battle. It glides upon those two iron bars, the noblest couplet of the age, from winter to summer; from day to night; from morning to evening.
It gives the river a holiday, and drives on regardless of its flow; it plunges like a strand of thunder through the mountain gorge; it pants around the wide world. Its shafts glitter in the mines; its voice is heard in the shops; its banner is every where. It has forced its way to the far hamlets in the quiet