The Daily Crescent

[From the Literary Southern Gazette.]

THE TELEGRAPH.—BY WM. C. RICH

Make ye those graceful curves that seem
Like lines of beauty on the sky?
Upon that mystic path can tread
That busy Thought each moment fly

'Tis even so: for man doth tame
The forked lightnings by his skill: —
And proudly bids their tongue of flame.
Be vocal with his thoughts at will.

'Tis: A thousand miles that line may reach
Yet Thought, is scarce a moment's space,
Marking the tardiness of speech,
Has run the vast, mysterious race

And deeds to distant lands are told.
Ere yet the echo of their fame
Across their place of birth has rolled
Or they have won received a name

O! behold upon that rushing train.
A murderer flies the place of guilt:
He turns And vainly hopes to hide the stain
Of human blood his hands have spilt,

For through the air tho' tidings appear
And Justice warned, as it from God
Stands ready to avenge the deed,
And smite her victim with her rod

From the cold regions of the North.
To lands that smile 'neath Southern
And winged messengers go forth:
And men beheld with deep surprise

The swift pulsations of the wires,
That to the tortured vision show
As moved by the electric fires
Wings, perchance, of weal or wo.

O! wondrous age, when man may greet
His brother, whom he cannot see;
And distant lands together meet.
In converse unrestrained and free:

When crime can find no refuge-spot,
Where its dark tale hath not been told :
When time and space are both forgot,
Or numbered with the things of old !

And e'er a century shall roll
In burden on the mighty past,
Around the globe, from pole to pole
Science her magic chains shall cast;

Then "thought's highway," from sea to sea,
And o'er their trackless wastes shall stretch,
Till all the human race shall be,
One in a universal speech!