Still o’er the Earth, thy shining foot-prints tarry, Upon the mountain-tops thy step yet strays; Through the rich woods thy rainbow plume floats airy, And on the sea thy form of glory plays! Thy purple pinions fan the brow of morning; Thy sun-bright splendors on the noonday rest, Eve wears the silvery veil of thy adorning, And night by thee in queenly robes is drest. Oh, Beautie! still doth thy bright spirit linger In the green vale where Jove was nurst of old: Where the Babe Thunderer listened to the singer Of “many-fountained Ida,” as ’tis told! Still hauntest thou the violet-crowned city— The Trojan Mountain, and the Cretan Hill? Wanders thy soul yet, in the Syren’s ditty— Speaks forth thy heart from the Lost Glory still? We have rare legends of thy marvelous presence— In Egypt’s Queen and bright Zenobia’s form; In lovelorn Sappho thrilled thine airiest essence— In proud Aspasia’s intellectual charm! Nor was thy soul (through Raphael’s pencil) wanting In Fornarina’s soft seraphic face! And, thanks to Petrarch, Laura’s form is haunting Our hearts with dreams of rare and breathing grace. Once more! thou art the well-beloved of _Nature_! Thine empire sweet, is o’er the grand old earth; And well thy soft hand printeth on each feature The brightness of thine own Immortal birth! Thou touchest with rich hues and scents the blossom; With emerald lines thou pencilest each leaf; Pearlest with dew the lonely flower-bells bosom, And flingest thy glory o’er the golden sheaf. Joy to thy presence, all-pervading spirit! Well may we worship at thy magic shrine; There is _no gift_ that mortals may inherit So favored and god-blest, and dear as thine. And still to _me_, thy worshiper, oh, Beautie! Come as a guest divine—an angel-friend; Give me to see thee, in each darker duty, And radiate my life-path to the end! * * * * * WHAT GLORY COSTS THE NATION. In the February number, we gave a short extract from Upham’s Manual of Peace, in relation to the cost of the Army and Navy of the United States. That article has brought out an officer of the Navy, with the following—in which we get abuse for facts, and sharp sentences for figures. We can stand a moderate amount of flaying without blubbering, and have no faith in the theory that a drop of ink will raise a blister, except upon persons exceedingly thin-skinned. But our correspondent, who takes a narrow view of both _time and figures_, appears to think the question a new one, and settled by his article, and both Upham and Graham demolished.