[ow, erect, at the outermost gates of 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
hant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress;
xpire in their rapture and wonder,
sharp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.

ut serene in the rapturous throng,
'nmoved 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 ;-

From the spirits on earth that adore, rom 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 into 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 medieval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the

more.

When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars,

Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, 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.

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 Mouse-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 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!

ENCELADUS.

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

'UT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

ver the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

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

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

This is the poem of the air,

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

A DAY OF SUNSHINE.

) GIFT of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not 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?

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.

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.