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way of the whale’s horrible wallow, and
then ranging up for another fling.
‘i he red tide now poured from all sides
of the monster like brooks down a hill.
11 is tormented body rolled not in brine
but in blood, which bubbled and seethed
for furlongs in their wake. The slanting
sun playing upon the crimson pond in the
sea,sent back its reflection into their laces,
so that they all glowed to each other like
red men. And all the while, jet after
jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot
from the spiracle of the whale, and vehe
ment puff after puff from the mouth of
the excited headsman ; as at every dart,
hauling in upon his crooked lance (by the
line attached to it), Stubb straightened it
again and again, by a few rapid blows
against the gunwale, then again and again
sent it into the whale.
‘Pull up —pull up!’ he now cried to
the bowsman, as the waning whale re
laxed in his wrath. ‘Pull up ! —close to !’
and the boat ranged along the fish’s flank.
When reaching far over the bow, Stubb
slowly churned his long sharp lance into
the fish, and kept it there a carefully churn
ing and churning, as if cautiously seeking
to feel after some gold watch that the
whale might have swallowed, and which
he was fearful cf breaking ere he could
hook it out. But that gold watch he
sought was the innermost life of the fish.
And now it is struck ; for, starting from
his trance into that unspeakable thing
called his ‘flurry,’ the monster horribly
wallowed in his blood, overwrapped him
self in impenetrable, mad, boiling spray,
so that the imperilled craft, instantly
dropping astern, had much ado blindly
to struggle out from that phreuzied twi
light into the clear air of. the day.
And now abating in his flurry, the
whale once more rolled out into view ;
surging from side to side; spasmodically
dilating and contracting his spout-hole,
with sharp, cracking, agonized respira
tions. At last, gush after gusli of
clotted red gore, as if it had been the pur
ple lees of red wine, shot into the fright
ed air; and falling back again, ran drip
ping down his motionless flanks into the
sea. His heart had burst!
“He’s dead. Mr. Stubb,’ said Daggoo.
‘Yes; both pipes are smoked out!’ and
withdrawing his own from his mouth,
Stubb scattered the dead ashes over the
water ; and, for a moment, stood thought
fully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.”
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
BEAUTY AND JOY.
An Epigram from the German of Schiller.
If thou hast never seen Beauty, in moments of
anguish and sorrow,
Then hast thou never the Beautiful seen !
If thou hast never seen Joy as it shines in the face
’ of the Beautiful,
Then is the Joyous presence most strange to
thine eyes!
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
At last between the French and English coast
Extends the Telegraph’s electric wire ;
Beneath the salt-sea waves conveying fire,
Which may be truly called the lightning-post;
Fire, which—it seems incredible almost—
Launched in a moment from the Gallic shore,
At Dover bade a mighty cannon roar.
THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
Hark ! how the furnace pants and roars,
How the molten metal pours,
As bursting from its iron doors,
It glitters in the sun.
Now through the ready mould it flows,
Seething and hissing as it goes,
And filling every crevice up,
As the red vintage fills the cup—
Hurra ! the work is done !
Unswathe him now. Take off each stay,
That binds him to his couch of clay,
And let him st.uggle into day !
Let chain and pulley run.
With yielding crank and steady rope,
Until he rise from rim to cope,
In rounded beauty, ribb’d in strength,
Without a flaw in all his length—
Hurra ! the work is done !
The clapper on his giant side
Shall ling no peal for blushing bride,
For birth, or death, or uew-year tide,
Or festival begun !
A nation’s joy alone shall be
The signal for his revelry ;
And for a nation’s woes alone
His melancholy tongue shall moan—
Hurra! the work is done !
Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,
His long, loud summons shall we hear,
“When statesmen to their country dear,
Their mortal race have run ;
When mighty monarchs yield their breath,
And patriots sleep the sleep of death,
Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,
And peal a requiem o’er their tomb—
Hurra ! Ihe work is done !
Should foemen lift their haughty hand,
And dare invade us where we stand,
Fast by the altars of our land
We’ll gather every one ;
And he shall ring the loud alarm,
SONNET ON THE SUBMARINE TELEGRAPH.
To call the multitudes to arm,
From distant fields and forest brown,
And teeming alleys of the town—
Hurra ! the work is done !
And as the solemn boom they hear,
Old men shall grasp the idle spear,
Laid by to rust for many a year,
And to the strnggle run ;
Young men shall leave their toils or books,
Or turn to swords their piuning-hooks ;
And maids have sweetest smiles for those
Who battle with their country’s foes—
Hurra ! the work is done !
And when the cannon’s iron throat
Shall bear the news to dells remote,
And trumpet blasts resound the note—
That victory is won ;
When down the wind the banner drops,
And bonfires blaze on mountain tops,
His sides shall glow with fierce delight,
And ring glad peals from morn to night—
Hurra ! the work is done !
But of such themes forbear to tell—
May never war awake this bell—
To sound the tocsin or the knell—
Hush’d the alarum gun.
Sheath’d be the sword ! and may his voice
But call the nations to rejoice
That War his tatter’d flag has furl’d,
And vanished from a wiser world—
Hurra ! ihe work is done !
Still may he ring when struggles cease—
Still may he ring for joy’s increase,
For progress in the arts of peace,
And friendly trophies won;
When rival nations join their hands,
When plenty crowns the happy lands,
When knowledge gives new blessings birth,
And Freedom reigns o’er all the earth—
Hurra ! the work is done /
What greater marvel could a wizard boast?
No worse explosion, no more fearful shock,
May that conductor in our island cause,
Transmitting news, which, could the fish that flock
Around it,read,’twould make them ope their eyes
Wider than life, and gape with all their jaws,
O’ercome with consternation and surprise.
[Jan. 3,