of narrow yellow ribbon widen into broad acres of golden grain; scattered skeins of silk Floss are webbed into running rivers; paltry patches of green, are whole "sections" of red clover; little out-door Ovens, arched Depots of two hundred feet; the Railway itself, in the magic of Distance, seems the double scoring of the beautiful fields and lakes and towns along which those lines are drawn, that the Compositor may set them up' in CAPITALS, every one; and the Engine, a glossy black beetle creeping over the disc of the Prairies; "the transit" of iron, that Astronomers never foretold.

Lo! there, "the breathing thought,”

The poets sang of old,

And there "the burning word,"

No tongue had fully told,
Until the magic hand;

The bold conception wrought,
In iron and in fire it stands-

The world's embodied THOUGHT.

Lo! in the panting thunders,

Hear the echo of the Age!
Lo! in the globe's broad breast, behold
The poet's noblest page!

For in the brace of iron bars,

That weld two worlds in one,

The couplet of a nobler lay

Than bards have e'er begun!

But there are points in sight of the dull port of Earth, whence your pendulums and plungings would be motionless as the pulse of the dead-swing as they might, through tremendous arcs, with a Radius that would curve around the WORLD, they would be motionless still, as the caldrons that bubble amid the Maples in March-points, whence the leaves in the book of Time seem strangely displaced, and June and December-blank leaf and Vignette-flutter side by side. June and December! A synonyme for an arc of one hundred and ninety millions of miles- -an arc, that woven into a blue scarf for earth, could be flung over it from Ursa Major to the Southern Crosscould bind it in a true love-knot to the Flag-star of Even; could flutter a fringe in the blaze of the Sun, and leave signals, aye, and badges beside, for all the Engineers that ever carried a "field-book," or sported a Theodolite.

Fourth of July.

There was a

DAY broke in thunder, this morning. crashing of spars and a roaring of great guns round the horizon; and blasts of music drifting with the downy clouds; a brood of summer showers came off' and filled the sky; and triumphal arches were heaved up on the great leverage' of the Sun. It's the FOURTH OF JULY: the day they brought the iron cradle home, wherein to rock young LIBERTY; the day when the whisper breathed beneath the shadow of "King's Mountain" in the "old North State," went crashing in echoes round the entire world—

Oh! wild was that dawning! No welcome of words,
No star to foretell it—no warbling of birds—
No fading of shadows-no murmur of rills—

No flashing of pinions-no flushing of hills;

But the day broke in thunder o'er land and o'er sea,

And from cloud and from shroud, rang the song of the Free.
Oh! that song of wrought iron no bard could have made,
With its surging of banner and gleaming of blade;
With its column of cloud, and its pillar of flame,

And the clods 'neath the dead, turned the color of fame!

Wonderfully rare were the trinkets strown about that cradle; the

Land of the vale, the viol, and the vine,

L

flung over the water a snowy lily from the gardens of FRANCE; old HOLLAND sent a plume, plucked from the bleeding breast of her own Stork; WOMAN WOVE a banner "without spot or wrinkle ;" the FOREST uprooted an evergreen Pine for token; the MOUNTAIN chained an Eagle, right from his rocky eyrie, for emblem; HEAVEN cast down a handful of stars-a dozen and one-for the Flag that lay there; and GOD gave unmuffled drums for hearts, and right for the strong arm.

It is the Fourth of July all over the Farm: Four Blue Birds shook off their allegiance this morning; two Robins declared themselves "free and independent," of the parent nest; two colonies of bees went out from the old Hives. A battalion of red-birds paraded in full uniform; a Jay in a jaunty cap pronounced an Oration from a rocking spray in the Orchard; the winds and the woods played a grand anthem; the roses made a prayer, and "Jemmy" sang a song. The Bobolinks rang little bells all day; Ceres marshaled her corn, rustling in silks, and gay with tassels; the bearded grain was out in its gold; fireworks blazed at night over the meadow; and isn't it the Fourth of July all over the Farm?

It's the Fourth of July all over the World. The

Gold-digger rests his "wash-bowl on his knee," and all at once he remembers it's the Fourth of July; the orient Wanderer pauses beneath a palm, wipes his brow, and thinks, "Its the Fourth of July at home." The Mariner on his rocking deck, where pipes Cape Horn through frozen shrouds, or where his bows plough the snowy surf of northern night, bethinks him it's the Fourth of July-his trumpet is to his lip, and up main-mast and mizzen run the streamers, and from the fore' shakes out the Bunting; and isn't it the Fourth of July all over the World?

"God bless our Stars for ever!"

Thus the Angels sang sublime,

When round God's forges fluttered fast,

The sparks of starry Time!

When they fanned them with their pinions,
Till they kindled into day,

And revealed Creation's bosom,
Where the infant Eden lay.

"God bless our stars for ever!"

Thus they sang-the seers of old,
When they beckoned to the Morning,
Through the Future's misty fold;
When they waved the wand of wonder-
When they breathed the magic word,

And the pulses' golden glimmer,

Showed the waking Granite heard