P.S.—Are the following lines, which contain this idea, and were copied long ago from the poet's corner of a provincial paper, with the title of "The Language of the Stars, a fragment," worth preserving?
"The stars bear tidings, voiceless though they are:
'Mid the calm loveliness of the evening air,
As one by one they open clear and high,
And win the wondering gaze of infancy,
They speak,—yet utter not. Fair heavenly flowers
Strewn on the floor-way of the angels' bowers!
'Twas His own hand that twined your chaplets bright,
And thoughts of love are in your wreaths of light,
Unread, unreadable by us;—there lie