And, in the lingering lustre of the eve,
  Again the Saviour and his seraphs shone. 
  Emitted sudden in his rising, flash’d
  Intenser light, as toward the right hand host
  Mild turning, with a look ineffable,
  The invitation he proclaim’d in accents
  Which on their ravish’d ears pour’d thrilling, like
  The silver sound of many trumpets, heard
  Afar in sweetest jubilee:  then, swift
  Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left,
  That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice
  Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them
  Seem’d like the crush of heaven, pronounced the doom. 
  The sentence utter’d as with life instinct,
  The throne uprose majestically slow;
  Each angel spread his wings; in one dread swell
  Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets
  And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet,
  And many a strange and deep-toned instrument
  Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth,
  And angels’ voices, and the loud acclaim
  Of all the ransom’d like a thunder shout,
  Far through the skies melodious echoes roll’d
  And faint hosannas distant climes return’d.

* * * * *

=_John M. Harney,[79] 1789-1855._=

From “Crystallina:  a Fairy Tale.”

=_333._=

  On the stormy heath a ring they form;
    They place therein the fearful maid,
  And round her dance in the howling storm. 
    The winds beat hard on her lovely head: 
    But she clasped her hands, and nothing said.

  O, ’twas, I ween, a ghastly sight
    To see their uncouth revelry. 
  The lightning was the taper bright,
    The thunder was the melody,
    To which they danced with horrid glee.

  The fierce-eyed owl did on them scowl,
    The bat played round on leathern wing,
  The coal-black wolf did at them howl,
    The coal-black raven did croak and sing,
    And o’er them flap his dusky wing.

  An earthquake heaved beneath their feet,
    Pale meteors revelled in the sky,
  The clouds sailed by like a routed fleet,
    The night-winds shrieked as they passed by,
    The dark-red moon was eclipsed on high.

[Footnote 79:  One of the earliest poets of the West, but a native of Delaware.]

* * * * *

=_Charles Sprague, 1791-._= (Manual, p. 514.)

From “Curiosity.”

=_334._= THE NEWSPAPER.

  Turn to the Press—­its teeming sheets survey,
  Big with the wonders of each passing day;
  Births, deaths, and weddings, forgeries, fires, and wrecks,
  Harangues and hailstorms, brawls and broken necks;
  Where half-fledged bards, on feeble pinions, seek
  An immortality of near a week;
  Where cruel eulogists the dead restore,
  In maudlin praise, to martyr them once more;
  Where ruffian slanderers wreak their coward spite,
  And need no venomed dagger while they write.