when it exists as it did in the mind of Columbus--the constant presence of God in the soul, of justice in the conscience, of mercy in the heart, of gratitude in success, of resignation in reverses, of worship always and everywhere. Such was the man. We know of none more perfect. He contains several impersonations within himself. He was worthy to represent the ancient world before that unknown continent on which he was the first to set foot, and carry to these men of a new race all the virtues, without any of the vices, of the elder hemisphere. So great was his influence on the destiny of the earth, that none more than he ever deserved the name of a _Civilizer_. His influence in civilization was immeasurable. He completed the world. He realized the physical unity of the globe. He advanced, far beyond all that had been done before his time, the work of God--the SPIRITUAL UNITY OF THE HUMAN RACE. This work, in which Columbus had so largely assisted, was indeed too great to be worthily rewarded even by affixing his name to the fourth continent. America bears not that name, but the human race, drawn together and cemented by him, will spread his renown over the whole earth. THE PSALM OF THE WEST. SIDNEY LANIER, an American poet of considerable talent. Born at Macon, Ga., February 3, 1842; died at Lynn, N. C., September 8, 1881. From his "Psalm of the West."[45] Lanier was the author of the "Centennial Ode." Santa Maria, well thou tremblest down the wave, Thy Pinta far abow, thy Nina nigh astern; Columbus stands in the night alone, and, passing grave, Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn. Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave, Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn. "'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smite With prickly seconds, or less tolerably With dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me. Wait, heart! Time moves. Thou lithe young Western Night, Just-crowned King, slow riding to thy right, Would God that I might straddle mutiny Calm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed sea, Balk'st with his balking, fliest with his flight, Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls, Nor dropp'st one coronal star about thy brow, Whilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawls, No damage taking from their If and How, Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn.