As down the midnight air they float Upon celestial cars, I turn me to a steady light That gleams among the stars; A prophet-light it is to me, And shadows forth the hour That calls my spirit there to meet A seraph in its bower. III. Beside my casement still _I_ sit, When goes my _spirit_ forth, With waving plume, and rustling wing, Up toward the blazing North: While solemnly the stars look down, And solemnly they seem To shed a fair and brilliant light On this, my waking dream. IV. And high each everlasting hill Lifts up its crownéd head, Like some tall, stately cenotaph For nations of the dead! The broad, blue river rolls as free As waters in that clime Which bends above these waves, that flow Like some subduing rhyme. V. Beside my casement's trailing vines The zephyr finds me still, When matin-hymns are gushing forth From bird, and bee, and rill; For not until the morning star, That herald of the dawn, Has flashed upon the eastern skies, Are my sad eyes withdrawn. VI. I weary of the brilliant day, The warm, sunshiny air. And cling unto the solemn night, When nature kneels at prayer; For then my spirit wanders forth, With a resistless power, And, with its kindred spirit, holds The midnight Trysting-Hour. THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE. Harry Harson. CHAPTER NINTH. IN the same room which has been already described, in Harry Harson's dwelling, and in one of the stout, plethoric chairs before mentioned as constituting a part of its furniture, and beneath the superintendence of the busy clock, and under the watchful eye of that respectable dog Spite, sat Jacob Rhoneland, with his elbow resting on the table, his cheek leaning on the palm of his hand, and his eyes half shaded by his long blanched locks, listening with deep anxiety to Harson, who occupied a chair opposite, and was speaking with an earnestness which showed that the subject on which he discoursed was one in which he felt no slight interest. The manner of old Rhoneland would have attracted the notice of even a casual observer. He seemed restless and nervous; and at times even frightened. Occasionally he smiled faintly, and shaking his head, half rose from his seat, but sat down, scarcely conscious of what he did; and leaning his forehead on the palm of his hand, seemed to listen with breathless attention, as if dreading to lose a word of Harson's remarks, which were occasionally strengthened by his pressing his hand gently on Rhoneland's, as it rested on the table. At last, Harson, in conclusion, said in an earnest tone: 'Now tell me, Jacob, on your honor, do you love her?'