It was night in heaven; all was unutterably silent, the music of
the spheres had paused, and not a sound came from the angels of
the stars; and they who sat upon those shining thrones were
three thousand and ten, each resembling each.

Eternal youth clothed their radiant limbs with celestial beauty,
and on their faces was written the dread of calm, that fearful
stillness which feels not, sympathizes not with the dooms over
which it broods.

War, tempest, pestilence, the rise of empires, and their fall,
they ordain, they, compass, unexultant and uncompassionate. The
fell and thrilling crimes that stalk abroad when the world
sleeps--the parricide with his stealthy step, and horrent brow,
and lifted knife; the unwifed mother that glides out and looks
behind, and behind, and shudders, and casts her babe upon the
river, and hears the wail, and pities not--the splash, and does
not tremble!

These the starred kings behold--to these they lead the
unconscious step; but the guilt blanches not their lustre,
neither doth remorse wither their unwrinkled youth.

Each star wore a kingly diadem; round the loins of each was a
graven belt, graven with many and mighty signs; and the foot of
each was on a burning ball, and the right arm dropped over the
knee as they bent down from their thrones; they moved not a limb
or feature, save the finger of the right hand, which ever and
anon moved slowly, pointing, and regulated the fates of men as
the hand of the dial speaks the career of time.