Place a half-extinguish'd
meteor by his side, in the form of a hero's sword. And oh! let his
countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in his presence.
Bend from your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers, bend. Such was my
song in Selma, to the lightly trembling harp."]
How or why I know not, just at the moment, but I too muse and think
of my best friends in their distant homes--of William O'Connor, of
Maurice Bucke, of John Burroughs, and of Mrs. Gilchrist--friends of my
soul--stanchest friends of my other soul, my poems.
ONLY A NEW FERRY-BOAT
_Jan. 12, '82_.--Such a show as the Delaware presented an hour before
sundown yesterday evening, all along between Philadelphia and Camden,
is worth weaving into an item. It was full tide, a fair breeze from
the southwest, the water of a pale tawny color, and just enough motion
to make things frolicsome and lively. Add to these an approaching
sunset of unusual splendor, a broad tumble of clouds, with much golden
haze and profusion of beaming shaft and dazzle. In the midst of all,
in the clear drab of the afternoon light, there steam'd up the river
the large, new boat, "the Wenonah," as pretty an object as you could
wish to see, lightly and swiftly skimming along, all trim and white,
cover'd with flags, transparent red and blue, streaming out in the
breeze. Only a new ferry-boat, and yet in its fitness comparable with
the prettiest product of Nature's cunning, and rivaling it. High up
in the transparent ether gracefully balanced and circled four or five
great sea hawks, while here below, amid the pomp and picturesqueness
of sky and river, swam this creation of artificial beauty and motion
and power, in its way no less perfect.
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