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E may not see the power-house, that moves the cars along, Or know the notes by which the birds inspire us with their song; And we are strangers quite it seems to heights, which we may If in accord with melodies so difficult to know; Our fleet may sail upon the seas above the vales below; Above the finny tribes beneath, whose phosphorescent glow May light their way in measure full; their charm is quite at hand; Their hills, their valleys quite the same as ours, on the land. Ethereal seem the heavens above and starry windows beam A twinkling light through darkness here, to radiate between; But where the silent power is this mystery to distil Is strangely life's great question-box; " no answer in the till." Our orb through space is whirling on; astronomers may see Through science, on a higher plane, the grandeur sure to be On summits where no foot has trod, which Sacred Keys may know; All well in hand, rare search-lights grand, illumine those below. |
