« السابقةمتابعة »
Ye are better than all the ballads
For ye are living poems,
WE yon read in the Talmud of old, the Legends the ltahbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air, ave you read it, — the marvellous story ! Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, che Angel of Prayer?
low, erect, at the outermost gates if the City Celestial he waits,
With his feet on the ladder of light, hat, crowded with angels unnumbered, 'y Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?
he Angels of Wind and of Fire inant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress; jcpire in their rapture and wonder, s harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.
ut serene in the rapturous throng, unioved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow, mong the dead angels, the deathless •andalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below ;—
"rom the spirits on earth that adore, roni the souls that entreat and implore
In the fervor and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
And he gathers the prayers as he stands. And they change mto flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know, —
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
But haunts me and holds me the
When L look from my window at night,
Among them majestic is standing
And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.
FLIGHT THE SECOND.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Jetweex the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower,
Jomes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.
hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, ?he sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. 15.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
A whisper, and then a silence:
They are plotting and planning together
A sudden rush from the stairway,
By three doors left unguarded
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They almost devour me with kisses,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Such an old mustache as I am
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
And moulder in dust away!
Under Mount Etna he lies,
It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath.
The crags are piled on his breast,
The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead.
And the nations far away
Are watching with eager eyes;
They talk together and say,
"To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise!"
And the old gods, the austere
Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, "At length!"
Ah me! for the land that is sown
With the harvest of despair! Where the burning cinders, blown
From the lips of the overthrown
Where ashes are heaped in drifts
Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down.
See, see ! the red light shines!
'T is the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through th pines
Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!"
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of war;
And at times from the fortress across tln bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of oui foes
Was steadily steering its course
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff' of smoke from hei guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield l' And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.
len, like a kraken huge and Mack, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! iwn went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.
jxt morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
ird, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.
o ! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; o ! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again, And without a seam!
'ut of the bosom of the Air,
ver the woodlands brown and bare,
Wen as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
'iVen as the troubled heart doth make
'his is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
A DAY OF SUNSHINE.
) Gift of God! O perfect day:
Through every fibre of my brain,
I hear the wind among the trees
And over me unrolls on high
Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
O Life and Love! O happy throng
SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.
Labor with what zeal we will,
Something uncompleted still
By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday
Each to-day is heavier made;
Till at length the burden seems
Heavy as the weight of dreams,
And we stand from day to day,
Who, as Northern legends say,