Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express.
But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below ;
From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour 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.
EPIMETHEUS,
OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT.
HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal
Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian?
What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances
As with magic circles bound me?
Ah! how cold are their caresses!
Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!
O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture! Children of my golden leisures! Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture?
Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous When they came to me unbidden; Voices single, and in chorus, Like the wild birds singing o'er us In the dark of branches hidden.
Disenchantment! Disillusion! Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation ?
Not with steeper fall nor faster, From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster,
Icarus fell with shattered pinions!
Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora ! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora,
If to win thee is to hate thee?
No, not hate thee! for this feeling Of unrest and long resistance Is but passionate appealing, A prophetic whisper stealing
O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamour, Thou, beloved, never leavest; In life's discord, strife, and clamour, Still he feels thy spell of glamour;
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.
Weary hearts by thee are lifted,
Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted,
Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, Lives, like days in summer, lengthened!
Therefore art thou ever dearer,
O my Sibyl, my deceiver !
For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer,
When thou fillest my heart with fever !
Muse of all the Gifts and Graces!
Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces:
Let us turn and wander thither!
ONE Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin.
As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
But from the parlour of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir; Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all The splendour of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlour large and low; It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, It touched with more than wonted grace Fair Princess Mary's pictured face; It bronzed the rafters overhead, On the old spinet's ivory keys It played inaudible melodies,
It crowned the sombre clock with flame, The hands, the hours, the maker's name, And painted with a livelier red The Landlord's coat-of-arms again; And, flashing on the window-pane, Emblazoned with its light and shade The jovial rhymes, that still remain, Writ near a century ago,
By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.
Before the blazing fire of wood Erect the rapt musician stood; And ever and anon he bent His head upon his instrument, And seemed to listen, till he caught Confessions of its secret thought,- The joy, the triumph, the lament, The exultation and the pain; Then, by the magic of his art,
He soothed the throbbings of its heart, And lulled it into peace again.
Around the fireside at their ease
There sat a group of friends, entranced
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