'It struck me much as I sat beside the Kuhbach, one silent noontide, and watched it flowing, gurgling, to think how this same streamlet had flowed and gurgled through all changes of weather and of fortune, from beyond the earliest date of history. Yes, probably on the morning when JOSHUA forded Jordan; even as at the midday when CAESAR, doubtless with difficulty, swam the Nile, yet kept his Commentaries dry; this little Kuhbach, assiduous as Tiber, Eurotas or Siloa, was murmuring on across the wilderness, unnamed, unseen.' SARTOR RESARTUS: BOOK II., CHAP. III. SONNET III.--ETERNITY OF NATURE. One silent noonday, as I sat beside The gurgling flow of Kuhbach's little river, Methought how, even as I saw it glide, That stream had flowed and gurgled on forever. Yes, on the day when JOSHUA passed the flood Of ancient Jordan; when across the Nile CAESAR swam (hardly, doubtless, through the mud,) Yet kept his Commentaries dry the while, This little Kuhbach, like Siloa's rill, Or Tiber's Tide, assiduous and serene, Ev'n then, the same as now, was murmuring still Across the wilderness, unnamed, unseen. Art's but a mushroom--only Nature's old; In yon grey crag six thousand years behold! From the same chapter of the same book we venture one more extract. It is where the Professor is full of grief and reminiscences; where, reflecting on his first experience of wo in the death of Father ANDREAS, he becomes once more spirit-clad in quite inexpressible melancholy, and says, 'I have now pitched my tent under a cypress-tree,' etc.: SONNET IV.--BLISS IN GRIEF. Under a cypress-tree I pitch my tent: The tomb shall be my fortress; at its gate I sit and watch each hostile armament, And all the pains and penalties of Fate. And oh ye loved ones! that already sleep, Hushed in the noiseless bed of endless rest, For whom, while living, I could only weep, But never help in all your sore distress, And ye who still your lonely burthen bear, Spilling your blood beneath life's bitter thrall, A little while and we shall all meet _there_, And one kind Mother's bosom screen us all; Oppression's harness will no longer tire Or gall us there, nor Sorrow's whip of fire.