Like a warrior-angel sped
       On a mighty mission,
     Light and life about him shed—­
       A transcendent vision!

     Mailed in gold and fire he stands,
       And, with splendours shaken,
     Bids the slumbering seas and lands
       Quicken and awaken.

     Day is on us.  Dreams are dumb,
       Thought has light for neighbour;
     Room!  The rival giants come—­
       Lo, the Sun and Labour!

After witnessing that lordly spectacle, who can wonder at Zoroaster?  As the lights from east and west meet and mingle, and the sky rears its blue immensity, it is hard to look on for very gladness.

I shall suppose that we are on a small vessel—­for, if we sail in a liner, or even in an ordinary big steamer, it is somewhat like moving about on a floating factory.  The busy life of a sailor begins, for Jack rarely has an idle minute while he is on deck.  Landsmen can call in help when their house needs repairing, but sailors must be able to keep every part of their house in perfect order; and there is always something to be done.  But we are lazy; we toil not, neither do we tar ropes, and our main business is to get up a thoroughly good appetite while we watch the deft sailor-men going about their business.  It is my belief that a landsman might spend a month without a tedious hour, if he would only take the trouble to watch everything that the men do and find out why it is done.  Ages on ages of storm and stress are answerable for the most trifling device that the sailor employs.  How many and many lives were lost before the Norsemen learned to support the masts of their winged dragons by means of bull’s-hide ropes!  How many shiploads of men were laid at the mercy of the travelling seas before the Scandinavians learned to use a fixed rudder instead of a huge oar!  Not a bolt or rope or pulley or eyelet-hole has been fixed in our vessel save through the bitter experience of centuries; one might write a volume about that mainsail, showing how its rigid, slanting beauty and its tremendous power were gradually attained by evolution from the ugly square lump of matting which swung from the masthead of Mediterranean craft.  But we must not philosophise; we must enjoy.  The fresh morning breeze runs merrily over the ripples and plucks off their crests; our vessel leans prettily, and you hear a tinkling hiss as she shears through the lovely green hillocks.  Sometimes she thrusts away a burst of spray, and in the midst of the white spurt there shines a rainbow.  It may happen that the rainbows come thickly for half an hour at a time, and then we seem to be passing through a fairy scene.  Go under the main-yard and look away to leeward.  The wind roars out of the mainsail and streams over you in a cold flood; but you do not mind that, for there is the joyous expanse of emerald and snow dancing under the glad sun.  There is something unspeakably delightful in the rushing never-ending procession of