Under the same catholic
sun glances his white ship over Pacific waves into their smooth
bays, and the poor savage's paddle gleams in the air.
Man's little acts are grand,
Beheld from land to land,
There as they lie in time,
Within their native clime
Ships with the noontide weigh,
And glide before its ray
To some retired bay,
Their haunt,
Whence, under tropic sun,
Again they run,
Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant.
For this was ocean meant,
For this the sun was sent,
And moon was lent,
And winds in distant caverns pent.
Since our voyage the railroad on the bank has been extended, and
there is now but little boating on the Merrimack. All kinds of
produce and stores were formerly conveyed by water, but now
nothing is carried up the stream, and almost wood and bricks
alone are carried down, and these are also carried on the
railroad. The locks are fast wearing out, and will soon be
impassable, since the tolls will not pay the expense of repairing
them, and so in a few years there will be an end of boating on
this river.
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