4 February 1839 – 10 February 1839

When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with our pen, delighting, like the cock, in the dust we make, but do not detect where the jewel lies, which perhaps we have in the meantime cast to a distance, or quite covered up again.

It takes a man to make a room silent.

When the world grows old by the chimney-side, Then forth to the youngling rocks I glide, Where over the water, and over the land, The bells are booming on either hand. Now up they go ding, then down again dong, And awhile they swing to the same old song, And the metal goes round at a single bound, A-lulling the fields with its measured sound, Till the tired tongue falls with a lengthened boom As solemn and loud as the crack of doom. Then changed is their measure to tone upon tone, And seldom it is that one sound comes alone, For they ring out their peals in a mingled throng, And the breezes waft the loud ding-dong along. When the echo has reached me in this lone vale, I am straightway a hero in coat of mail, I tug at my belt and I march on my post, And feel myself more than a match for a host. I am on the alert for some wonderful Thing Which somewhere 's a-taking place; 'Tis perchance the salute which our planet doth ring When it meeteth another in space.