His chariots ringing in their steel-shod groves,
And Erie’s naiad flings her diamond wave
O’er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave:
While tasks like these employ his anxious hours,
What if his corn-fields are not edged with flowers?
Though bright as silver the meridian beams
Shine through the crystal of thine English streams,
Turbid and dark the mighty wave is whirled
That drains our Andes and divides a world.
Under the similitude of a German-silver-spoon, ‘used by dabblers in æsthetic tea,’ we have the annexed palpable hit at the small-beer imitators of Carlyle, and copyists after the external garb of the German school, who have occasionally shown themselves up in the pages of ‘The Dial,’ a work which formerly ‘indicated rather the place of the moon than the sun:’