The singing spheres Entranced the very time they measured out; And memory drew me back to one sweet year, When, born anew to thought and love, the earth Was new, and music--fancy's dancing light Till then--became a dazzling revelation. 'Twas in a city, midway from the hymns Of Trenton and Niagra. 'Twas an eve When a whole nation sighed, as hour by hour, The news electric ran that he was dying, The Palo Alto hero. Then and there, I hear the orchestra that once had winged The festal hours when first the hero stood, A nation's chief. To me, the hall, the crowd, Were not; I watched a window-square of sky Deepen from tender blue to night profound; And, as it deepened, heard the voice of Time, All Time, all joy and sorrow, madness, woe, And saw a thousand forms of light and gloom, From music born. Distorted faces glared; Long lines of star-browed angels circled down, And ages dead were summoned back to earth. The horn rang out the joy of happy souls; The viol screamed and laughed in scorn, and groans Rose dread and deep from under gulfs of night. The past, the future life of self, of all. Before me crowded, wailed, entreated, warned, Battled, triumphed, or struggled wildly past, A long procession. Good for me the hour When music, erst a sylph or monster form, Assumed the glory that immortals wear, And sang to me the messages of Heaven. It nerved me newly for the war of life, Of truth, humanity. Now, a naked soul, I dwelt within the central court of space-- No globe immense, but the aye changing point, Where centred, hangs the whole creation's weight, Light as a snow-flake, on the hand of God. The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boom Of giant suns that slowly came and went, The whistlings, sweet and clear, of lesser orbs, And the low thunder of more distant deeps, Ever commingling, grew to eloquence No earthly brain may bear. The universe Had found a voice: the countless souls that fill The countless earths, were calling each to each, In tones as high as heaven, as deep as hell, And many as the many words. I felt What is existence, what the vast extent, The mystery, and the far result.... THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[10] TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES. III. THE DUEL It was a morning of December, but one of those fitful days when, the sun shining and the sky cloudless, the weather might lead one to suppose it to be spring, were the temperature not so cold and sharp, or if the flowers would only open, and the sun were as warm as it was bright. The young Marquise de Maulear sat over her painting, with Scorpione at her feet, when the Count Monte-Leone was announced. "Show him in," said Aminta.