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6 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,