“Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form
Glasses itself in tempests, in all time,
Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving;—boundless, endless and sublime—
The image of Eternity—the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread fathomless, alone.”
Lisbon is a beautiful little town, and one comes upon it so suddenly it is a surprise. For hours nothing but the grand, great prairies, billowed in wheat waves, smoke-plumed with thresher stacks. Then down you go into a beautiful valley—the valley of the Cheyenne, and nestling on its banks clean, church-spired, sits this up-to-date town.