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The rivers loiter like a calm-bound sea;

In anchored nuptials to dumb apathy

Cliff, wilderness and solitude are spoused.

Let us endeavor to translate this gibberish, by way of ascertaining its import, if possible. Or, rather, let us state the stanzas, in substance. The spirit lowers, that is to say grows angry, and speaks. He calls upon the Wild Woods to tremble, and upon the Cataracts to sound their voices which have the tone of an organ. He addresses, then, an Earthquake, or perhaps Earthquake in general, and requests it to level flat all the Deep Crags which are bound by massy tenures in earth — a request, by the way, which any sensible Earthquake must have regarded as tautological, since it is difficult to level anything otherwise than flat: — Mr. Mathews, however, is no doubt the best judge of flatness in the abstract, and may have peculiar ideas respecting it. But to proceed with the Spirit. Turning to the Winds, he enjoins them to howl and break the peace that broods above this world and steadfastly eludes their power — the same peace that mocks a Dismay ‘mid streams, rocks, et cetera. He now speaks to the night-shadowed Rivers, and commands them to lift their dusky hands, and clap them harshly with a sullen roar — and as roaring with one’s hands is not the easiest matter in the world, we can only conclude that the Rivers here reluctantly disobeyed the injunction. Nothing daunted, however, the Spirit, addressing a thousand Pinnacles and Steeps, desires them to deplore the glory that departs, or is departing — and we can almost fancy that we see the Pinnacles deploring it upon the spot. The Lakes — at least such of them as possess azure waves and snowy strands — then come in for their share of the oration. They are called upon to observe — to take notice — that above them stands no ordinary character — no Piankitank stump orator, or anything of that sort — but a Power; — a power, in short, to use the exact words of Mr. ­Mathews, “that utters forth his loud behest, till mountain, lake and river shall attest the puissance of a Master’s large commands.”Utters forth is no doubt somewhat supererogatory, since “to utter” is of itself to emit, or send forth; but as “the Power” appears to be somewhat excited he should be forgiven such mere errors of speech. We cannot, however, pass over his boast about uttering forth his loud behest till mountain, lake and rivers shall obey him — for the fact is that his threat is vox et preterea nihil, like the countryman’s nightingale in Catullus; the issue showing that the mountains, lakes and rivers — all very sensible creatures — go fast asleep upon the spot, and pay no attention to his rigmarole whatever. Upon the “large commands” it is not our intention to dwell. The phrase is a singularly mercantile one to be in the mouth of “a Power.” It is not impossible, however, that Mr. Mathews himself is

—— busy in the cotton trade

And sugar line.

But to resume. We were originally told that the Spirit “lowered” and spoke, and in truth his entire speech is a scold at Creation; yet stanza the eighth is so forgetful as to say that he spoke “with a wide-cast look of bounteous power and cheerful majesty.” Be this point as it may, he now shakes his brandished arms, and, swelling out, seems to grow —

As grows a cedar on a mountain’s top —

By the mad air in ruffling breezes took

— or as swells a turkey-gobler; whose image the poet unquestionably had in his mind’s eye when he penned the words about the ruffled cedar. As for took instead of taken — why not say tuk at once? We have heard of chaps vot vas tuk up for sheep-stealing, and we know of one or two that ought to be tuk up for murder of the Queen’s English.

We shall never get on. Stanza the ninth assures us that the woods are deaf and will not be aroused, that the mountains are asleep and so forth — all which Mr. Mathews might have anticipated. But the rest he could not have foreseen. He could not have foreknown that “the rivers, housed beneath their banks in darksome stillness,” would “loiter like a calm-bound sea,” and