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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,

losses,
And all the rest are dead. And weary with dragging the crosses

Too heavy for mortals to bear.
SANDALPHON.

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 ?

tal

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.

stars,

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.

more.

FLIGHT THE SECOND.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,
BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

When the night is beginning to lower, And Edith with golden hair.
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's A whisper, and then a silence :
Hour.

Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together hear in the chamber above me

To take me by surprise.
The patter of little feet,
Che sound of a door that is opened, A sudden rush from the stairway,
And voices soft and sweet.

A sudden raid from the hall !
15.

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!

From the lips of the overthrown

Enceladus, fill 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 !"

THE CUMBERLAND.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of

war; And at times from the fortress across the

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 our

foes
Was steadily steering its course

To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.

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 !”

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her

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 !

And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.

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

rooms

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,
And without a seam !

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

The fiery blossoms of the peach !
! SNOW-FLAKES.

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
Suddenly shape in some divine expres-
sion,

Waits the rising of the sun.
Cven as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,

By the bedside, on the stair,
The troubled sky reveals

At the threshold, near the gates,

With its menace or its prayer, The grief it feels.

Like a mendicant it waits ;
This is the poem of the air,

Waits, and will not go away ;
Slowly in silent syllables recorded ;
This is the secret of despair,

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,
A DAY OF SUNSHINE.

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.

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