The ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebrae were carved
with Arsacidean annals, in strange hieroglyphics; in the skull,
the priests kept up an unextinguished aromatic flame, so that the mystic
head again sent forth its vapory spout; while, suspended from
a bough, the terrific lower jaw vibrated over all the devotees,
like the hair-hung sword that so affrighted Damocles.
It was a wondrous sight. The wood was green as mosses of the Icy Glen;
the trees stood high and haughty, feeling their living sap;
the industrious earth beneath was as a weaver's loom,
with a gorgeous carpet on it, whereof the ground-vine tendrils
formed the warp and woof, and the living flowers the figures.
All the trees, with all their laden branches; all the shrubs,
and ferns, and grasses; the message-carrying air; all these
unceasingly were active. Through the lacings of the leaves,
the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving the unwearied verdure.
Oh, busy weaver! unseen weaver!--pause!--one word!--
whither flows the fabric? what palace may it deck? wherefore
all these ceaseless toilings? Speak, weaver!--stay thy hand!--
but one single word with thee! Nay--the shuttle flies--
the figures float from forth the loom; the fresher-rushing
carpet for ever slides away.
Pages:
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733