And caused to wander to and fro in heaven,
Over the harvest? Or, if he were fixed-
Suspended in the sky, as, when night comes,
The cheerful lamp dependeth from the ceiling,
Would it not better be by far, than now,
Seeing the harvest could be gathered in
Without the loss of all the precious hours
Dishonest darkness steals ?" Unrighteous mammon,
Look on the land of vision, and depart!

The sun stands still! unharness'd are his horses!
His chariot wheels are broken and he halts-
Halts on his course in yonder midday sky!

There has he been-how long? Who knows how long?

Time, too, stands still; and like a stream dam'd up
Has now become a silent, sad expanse--

A stagnant sea, without, or tide, or motion.
Our knowledge is at fault and means mistake.
Wisdom has been unwillingly compelled

To change its nature, and is turn'd to folly.
The thoughtful mind is wearied with suspense,
And order is no more.

Who now can tell
When to go forth afar, or when return?
When to accept a purpose, or-decline ?
When to take up a plan, or put it down?

When to commence a work, or when to end?
What are appointments-rich in future promise—
Or promises without a faith to hold them?
How can we take the time that never comes?
Or move with years when not a moment moves?
O, who on rapid wing of genius bright,

Will to the realm of ripe invention rise,
And bring down calculation that will help,
Out of the difficult, th' astonished world?
Will gather wealth of wisdom to compute
The course of that which has none; and declare
The motion of the motionless, and make

The world believe that what is silent, speaketh;
That what is resting, moves ? Who will declare
How we must deal with what has no existence,—
How number what is wanting?

There is fever
Throughout the compass of created nature.
Though time stands still, there is in all besides,
A strange, uncertain, vain and weary motion,—
A sense of wildly weird irregulation,

Winding about us,-a bewilderment

Of visionary notions, vain as air.

It touches with its warping wing the time-piece
That by mistaken measurement misleads

In cases where accuracy is called

The one thing chiefly needful. Hence it is

That he who has a journey to perform,

Goes off by guess; returneth unrewarded,

And throws the burden of the blame on chance!
While those who meet with coveted success,
In any daring enterprise of travel,

Praise fortune mostly for the end obtained.
The railway tables of the times are void;
Their regulator having abdicated,
There is for them, nor standard, law or rule,
And as it was of old when no king reigned,
Men do what seemeth right in their own eyes.

Will the skies melt ?

fall

Will the wide heavens

And wrap the earth in ruin? Strange confusion
Already reigns among us; and misrule
Holdeth appointment as prime minister.
Disorder wild commander is in chief,
And with a daring undisciplined army
He marches wildly forth from sea to sea;
From shore to shore upon the water travels.
Astonishment and fear are on the land;

And on the sea astonishment and fear.

While some to rest return from weary labour,

The sun meanwhile up in his place remaining,—
To weary labour others go from rest:

And, as if by agreement, half mankind

Annoys the other half that pays in kind,
Disturbance for disturbance. So the world
Is forced to travel in the train of trouble,
And the result is woe.

The worldly minded
Hears in his secret heart an earnest whisper;
And though it is the whisper of a fiend,
And mischief meaning in its hidden nature,
Yet is it listened to as if it were

The breath of gospel from the lip of blessing! It saith, "Go to,-O opportune occasion! No Tide of Even interferes with labour! Let pencil of the sun in hand of skill Draw boldly out a sure and certain plan For fortune's sake alone. Let labour look Out from the tower of wakefulness afarOut on the deep until a rolling tide

Of mighty income flood the scene with wonder! O opportune occasion, ripe and grand!" And now the listener goes to work in earnest, Paying for sunshine with the coin of health, Long as his health holds out, until at length, Too poor to pay, one cometh and explains, That all his work in this hot world is done. He knows the speaker by the name of Death.

There's now a longing for the solemn night

Where it was feared before. Even the heart That, in the long ago, had dread of gloom, Because that witches were abroad at dusk, And white ghosts glided to and fro in air, Along the quiet moonbeams; and because That in the mists arising from the marsh, And climbing up, and resting on the hills, There came a sudden sweep of wings unseen, That shot along, like lightning through the storm, With a loud whistling, near akin to scream. Even the heart that feared, for Even longs.

Moreover, those who used to start anights, Because that in their solitude arose, Out of the secret and the solemn deep, (So superstition in its school of lies Taught in mysterious murmurs,) oft arose Spirits that were of old in mortal flesh, Who-though polite enough, if so desired By those who had simplicity enough, And not light purses, and were also willing To pay a price polite,~ ‚—were so obliging, As to present, in common balls of crystal, Their ancient forms to feast the modern view,Yet who would come with melancholy moans, And clank of chains,-alas! uncalled for come,Especially at midnight, when the wind,