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Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.


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
Too heavy for mortals to bear.

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, —
A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
Yet the old mediieval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the

When L look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with

Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angi'l, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.

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.



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,
Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall l

By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Slouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all I

I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,

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
Enceladus, till the air.

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,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.

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
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.

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,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight

Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.

"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,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments

ver the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Wen as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

'iVen as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

'his is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
'his is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.


) Gift of God! O perfect day:
Vhereon shall no man work, but play;
Vhereon it is enough for me,
Jot to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?


Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,

Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,

At the threshold, near the gates,

With its menace or its prayer,
Like a mendicant it waits;

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
Greater than our strength can bear,

Heavy as the weight of dreams,
Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,

Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.

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