And who does not admire her grand pyrotechnic
display--twice daily--at sunrise and at sunset, or her celebrated local
effect, the Aurora Borealis?
I have loved fireworks from boyhood, and would rather have had dry bread
and fireworks than cake with jam. In manhood often I have listened to the
long-drawn ecstatic "aw" of the Crystal Palace crowd. I have even written
a poem on fireworks. Here it is:--
A dazzling fiery show of sphery rainbows,
Whereof each wonder, monarch of a moment,
Yields up its glory to the next one's splendour,
And sadly sinks into the arms of darkness.
Is it not a true simile of the favour of the fickle crowd? The most
brilliant phenomena are forgotten after a moment. Life and Time are full
of such fireworks--religions, philosophies, fashions, dynasties. And
overhead the sure stars shine on. In literature fireworks rarely last.
They are too clever to live. A humble rushlight lasts longer. "All
fireworks are unsound," says Steinitz. He is talking of chess, and chess
is very much like life. Whistler has painted fireworks--I mean
literally--in his blue and silver nocturne of old Battersea Bridge.
Tennyson has painted them in his "Welcome to Alexandra" and elsewhere.
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire!
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher,
Melt into stars for the land's desire!
"Sudden rocket.
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