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Ye are better than all the ballads In the fervor and passion of prayer ;
That ever were sung or said ; From the hearts that are broken with For ye are living poems,
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his AVE you read in the Talmud of old,
hands, the Legends the Rabbins have told Into garlands of purple and red ; Of the limitless realms of the air, And beneath the great arch of the porave you read it,
the marvellous story tal, Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Through the streets of the City ImmorSandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ?
Is wafted the fragrance they shed. [ow, erect, at the outermost gates If the City Celestial he waits,
It is but a legend, I know, – With his feet on the ladder of light, A fable, a phantom, a show, hat, crowded with angels unnumbered, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 'y Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Yet the old mediæval tradition, Alone in the desert at night ? The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the he Angels of Wind and of Fire hant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress ; When I look from my window at night, .xpire in their rapture and wonder, And the welkin above is all white, s harp-strings are broken asunder All throbbing and panting with By music they throb to express.
Among them majestic is standing ut serene in the rapturous throng, Sandalphon the angel, expanding nmoved by the rush of the song, His pinions in nebulous bars.
With eyes unimpassioned and slow, .mong the dead angels, the deathless And the legend, I feel, is a part andalphon stands listening breathless Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, To sounds that ascend from below ;- The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, From the spirits on earth that adore, The golden pomegranates of Eden, rom the souls that entreat and implore To quiet its fever and pain.
FLIGHT THE SECOND.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
When the night is beginning to lower, And Edith with golden hair.
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together hear in the chamber above me
To take me by surprise.
A sudden raid from the hall !
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.
Their arms about me entwine,
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Is not a match for you all !
And will not let you depart,
In the round-tower of my heart.
Yes, forever and a day,
And moulder in dust away!
From the lips of the overthrown
Enceladus, fill the air.
Over vineyard and field and town,
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 the
Or a bugle blast
A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our
To try the force
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 !”
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her
With fiery breath,
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 !
And the whole air pealed
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
hen, like a kraken huge and black, | Through every fibre of my brain, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Through every nerve, through every vein, wn went the Cumberland all a wrack, I feel the electric thrill, the touch
With a sudden shudder of death, Of life, that seems almost too much.
And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies ; axt morn, as the sun rose over the bay, I see the branches downward bent, Still floated our flag at the mainmast Like keys of some great instrument.
head. ord, how beautiful was Thy day!
And over me unrolls on high Every waft of the air
The splendid scenery of the sky, Was a whisper of prayer,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun Or a dirge for the dead.
Sails like a golden galleon,
Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, to! brave hearts that went down in the Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, seas !
Whose steep sierra far uplifts Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; Its craggy summits white with drifts. o ! brave land ! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Blow, winds ! and waft through all the
Shall be one again,
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms !
The fiery blossoms of the peach !
O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song ! 'Ut of the bosom of the Air,
O heart of man ! canst thou not be Out of the cloud-folds of her garments Blithe as the air is, and as free?
shaken, ver the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
LABOR with what zeal we will, ven as our cloudy fancies take
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, The grief it feels.
Like a mendicant it waits ;
Waits, and will not go away ;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid ; Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
By the cares of yesterday Now whispered and revealed
Each to-day is heavier made; To wood and field.
Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear,
Heavy as the weight of dreams,
Pressing on us everywhere. ) GIFT of God! O perfect day :
And we stand from day to day, Vhereon shall no man work, but play ; Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Whereon it is enough for me,
Who, as Northern legends say, Tot to be doing, but to be!
On their shoulders held the sky.