y: if it be so, not vainly have long years
sent forth their heralds on the trackless deep, where high endeavors of
exalted will which in themselves find no accomplishment, shall build at
length perfection. Peacefully he[20] sleeps, who erst beheld the rifted
shores of Greenland "glister in the sun, like gold:" and that deserted
chief[21] whose angry moan once mingled wildly with the screaming winds
and the hoarse gurgle of ingulfing waves, is unremembered now. But high
Emprise died not with them. Have not our latter days beheld, with awe,
the ice-borne Muscovite[22] ride the fierce billows of the Polar Sea?
Has not the Northern hunter seen the flag of England, o'er her floating
palaces, unfurled in his dominions crystalline? And who shall mourn,
while, in the mystic race, from hand to hand still moves the unquenched
torch, that none have reached the goal? Not suddenly doth the sweet
warmth of universal life, from brumal caves advancing, interfuse the
vast abysmal air, or penetrate the deep heart of the frost-entranced
Earth. Gentle, and in its very gentleness invincible, it moves, though
ruthlessly stern Winter calls his rallied armies on, and snow-blasts
violate the joyous prime. So is it, with the silent victories of Man's
enduring spirit: we have seen Winter and Spring; and shall we not behold
the full rejoicing of the complete year?

The hour shall come, nor shall the longing heart in that dark interval
be all unblest with glance prophetic. Though no meteor shape glare from
the speaking sky, no sheeted ghost wander dim-moving in the weird
midnight, with such forshadowings true as ever wait on him who, with a
calm and reverend eye, hath viewed the mysteries of things, and dared to
image forth the future from the past--bind on the mystic robe, and from
the brow of Hope's enchanted hill look boldly forth upon the coming
ages. Saw ye not white fog-wreaths floating through the cold gray dawn
over ice-laden billows, as they roll through yon rock-cinctured chasm? A
dusky shape looms through the hazy atmosphere, and sails, as of some
struggling bark that wearily breasts the opposing strength of angry
waves,[23] float with a fitful motion to and fro. Still on and on--a
breath-suspending sight of pale Solicitude, and fearful hope--and hark!
the triple crash of Britain's joy, the magical music of her wild hurra,
peals with a sound of mighty exultation through the aerial depths. The
cloven mist unwraps its folded canopy, and lo!