It soars to every height, plunges to every depth, and stretches its
vast arms throughout illimitable space.

It plants the first blush upon the cheek of dawn; with brush of gold
upon the glowing canvas of the west, it tells the story of the dying
day.

At its mere whim and caprice, a thousand pillars of light leap from
the dark and sullen seas which surge about the poles, while from its
shimmering loom it weaves the opalescent tapestry of the aurora to
hang against the black background of the arctic night.

It rouses nature from her winter sleep, breaks the icy fetters of the
frost that binds the streams, lifts the shroud of snow from off the
landscape, woos the tender mold and bids the birth of bud and blossom;
dowers the flower with perfume and clothes the earth with verdure of
the spring.

It rides the swift courses of the storms that circle round the bald
crest of old Mount Davidson; cleaves the black curtain of the night
with scimitar of flame; rouses the lightnings from their couch of
clouds and wakes the earthquake.

Beneath its touch, the beetling crag, which took omnipotence a
thousand years to rear, crumbles into dust, the mere plaything of the
idle wind; it lays its hand upon the populous city with its teeming,
restless multitude. And yesterday, where stood the glittering spire,
the shining tower, the frowning battlement, today the cold gray ocean
rolls in undisputed might.