TO THE MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH.

"HARP of a thousand strings!"

Swept by a mightier minstrel than the wind,
A viewless spirit, whose unfettered wings
Leave all, save thought, behind.

Outvying in its flight

The fleeting footsteps of the panting steed,
The arrow keel that cleaves the billows bright,
Or the fierce engine's speed.

Thine is the magic spell

With deepest tones the human heart to thrill;
The power, outvying feeble speech, to tell
Tidings of good or ill.

Peace, promise, joy, or woe,
These, mystic harp, we trust to thee,
All that our weak Humanity may know,
Thy Melodies shall be.

Thou, who dost herald on

To the vast inland, stretching far and wide,
Tales from the ships, whose moorings yet unwon
Must still the wild waves ride.

We pause and gaze on thee,

Marking with wondering eye thy tiny chords,
Weaving perchance, our fortunes yet to be,
Still unrevealed by words:

Telling of kings and thrones,
A nation's downfall, or an empire's birth,
Revealing in thy weird and mystic tones,
Strange histories of Earth.

Of famine, fire, and flood,

The fearful earthquake, or the whirlwind's breath, The ocean, tempest, or the field of blood,

The pestilence, and death.

Or tidings sweet and dear,

The blissful messages of love and peace,

To waiting hearts that yearn-from thee to hear
Hope, joy, return, release.

Thou who shalt link all lands,

Thou who at last shalt span the stormy sea,
Binding the nations into brother bands--

What shall we sing of thee?

The earth whereon we tread,

The mighty billows rolling over thee,

The lightning's flash, the sky, the clouds o'erspread, Shall yet thy minstrels be.