which was written, with the clearness and beauty of copperplate,

"Their reverend beards that sweep their bosoms wet
With the chill dews of shady Olivet."

"Charming," said I. "And what then? What are you driving at?"

"Well, I was thinking of Olivet, and then I wanted a rhyme for Olivet;
and rhymes are the rudders, you know, according to Hudibras; and then
uprose the picture of the Apostles before me,--their reverend beards all
dripping with the dews of night."

How little did he or I then foresee what soon followed,--soon, that is,
in comparison with all he had ever done before! The "Airs of Palestine,"
like the night-blooming cereus,--the century-plant,--flowering at last,
and all at once and most unexpectedly too, after generations have waited
for it, as for the penumbra of something foretold, until both their
patience and their faith have almost failed. But, from the very first,
there were signs of growth not to be mistaken,--of inward growth,
too,--and oftentimes an appearance of slowly gathered strength, as if it
had been long husbanded, and for a great purpose. For example,--

"There the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls,
And there, in painted pomp, the savage Indian prowls."

What a picture of brooding desolation! How concentrated and how
unpretending, in its simplicity and strength!

And again, having had visions, and having begun to breathe a new
atmosphere, with Sinai in view, he says,