Thomson
sees pearls only in the dew-impearled earth, and one must admit, after
looking upon the liquid globules hanging in rows from the spreading
twigs of trees before the morning sun has found them in their shaded
quarters, that the pendent spheres are suggestive, and that the poet's
eye needs but little assistance from imagination to see in them the
soft round gems of the ocean.
In
all ages, prose and fiction have treated of pearls as a form of
exceeding preciousness and a chief evidence of high station and
barbaric splendor. The lute of poetry has held few additional strings.
Modern writers have added little to the imaginations of the ancients.
All the changes made by successive poets have been rung on the tears,
dew-drops, and beauty's teeth, handed down from long ago.
The
wide ranges of the pearl's modest worth, exalted purity, and singular
beauty, yet remain to illustrate the thoughts of future genius.
Imagination has not yet brooded often over the humble and distorted
creatures, whose gnarled and twisted forms, lying among their myriad
shapely brethren are evidence of a precious
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