Nor were the splendors silent all. To spirits 'Tis ever one to see, to hear, to feel-- The music of the spheres is therefore truth, And, now, no more I heard the noise confused Of humming stars and murmuring moons, in tones Discordant; but as in the focal point Of whispering rooms, so here I found at last The centre where the perfect chords combine-- Where the full harmonies of rolling worlds Are poring evermore in billowy seas Of sounds, that break in thundered syllables Unutterable to men. A naked soul Within the central court of space, to me The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boom Of giant suns that slowly came and went, The whistlings, sweet and far, of lesser orbs, And the low thunder of more distant deeps, Ever commingling, grew to eloquence No mortal brain may bear. The universe Had found a voice.... HEAVEN. "Look to thy God." I flamed at Him with will intense, And soon a sea of light and love arose And bathed my soul, and filled the empty space With overflowing glory. All was heaven; And all the joy, the splendor, I had known In space, to this was but the prelude harsh Of brazen instruments, before the song Of some incarnate seraph, breathes and rolls A flood of fulness o'er a tranced world. Enough to say, whate'er we wish of scene, Society, occupation, pleasure-- Whenever wished, is ours; and this is Heaven; This is the prize of earthly self-denial. Freedom, the boundless freedom of the pure-- This the reward of holy self-restraint. A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[6] WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. CHAPTER XXXVIII. We must now turn once more to Sir Philip Hastings as he sat in his lonely room in prison. Books had been allowed him, paper, pen, and ink, and all that could aid to pass the time; but Sir Philip had matter for study in his own mind, and the books had remained unopened for several days. Hour after hour, since his interview with Secretary Vernon, and day after day he had paced that room to and fro, till the sound of his incessant footfall was a burthen to those below. His hair had grown very white, the wrinkles on his brow had deepened and become many, and his head was bowed as if age had pressed it down. As he walked, his eye beneath his shaggy eyebrow was generally bent upon the floor, but when any accidental circumstance caused him to raise it--a distant sound from without, or some thought passing through his own mind--there was that curious gleam in it which I have mentioned when describing him in boyhood, but now heightened and rendered somewhat more wild and mysterious. At those moments the expression of his eyes amounted almost to fierceness, and yet there was something grand, and fixed, and calm about the brow which seemed to contradict the impatient, irritable look.