Another looks within thine eyes, So angel-like serene, He cannot tell how softly lies My spirit-love between— I envy not thy hand in his, But when I pass thee by, For me there is enough of bliss May I but hear thee sigh. * * * * * SONNET.—THE STARS. BY REV. S. DRYDEN PHELPS. Bright lamps of the illimitable sky! Hung by Jehovah’s all-creating hand, Amid the chambers of his temple high Where ye have gazed with never-sleeping eye, Upon this darkened orb, this far-off land, While age succeeding age hath rolled away. Ye saw fair Eden—the destroying flood— The rise of empires, and their sad decay— The deeds of heroes, and earth’s fields of blood: Ye have beheld the path old Time hath trod Man’s idol-worship—his neglect of God; And, beaming as of old from heaven’s high tower, To all the world, at evening’s hallowed hour, Ye speak—how eloquent!—your Maker’s love and power! * * * * * THE CRYSTAL PALACE AND ITS LESSONS. BY HORACE GREELEY. Each age, each race, inscribes itself, with more or less distinctness, on History’s dial. Nineveh, almost faded from our traditions of the world’s infancy, revisits us in her freshly exhumed sculptures and in the vivid narrations of Layard. The Egypt of Sesostris and the Pharaohs survives no less in her pyramids and obelisks than in the ever-enduring records of Moses and Manetho. Jerusalem, in her lonely humiliation, best typifies the Hebrew state and race. Ancient Rome lives for us in the Capitol and the Coliseum, as does her mediæval and sacerdotal offspring and namesake in St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Royal and feudal France, the France of Richelieu and Louis le Grand, still lingers in the boundless magnificence and prodigality, the showy sieges and battle-pieces of Versailles. The England of the last three centuries confronts us in the Bank—not a very stately nor graceful edifice, it must be allowed; but very substantial and well furnished—the fit heart’s core of a trading, money-getting people. So we Americans of the Nineteenth Century will be found in due time to have inscribed ourselves most legibly, though all unconsciously, on the earth’s unfading records—how, or in what, time alone can tell. Perhaps a railroad over the Rocky Mountains, a telegraph across the Atlantic, a towering observatory wherein all the storms and calms at any moment prevailing within the earth’s atmosphere shall be portrayed on a common dial-plate, and the storms which _shall_ take place at any point during the next day or week, with their several directions and intensities—perhaps something very different from any of these. Essential History still insists on writing itself, and will not be controlled nor anticipated.