SANDALPHON. HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, Of the limitless realms of the air,Have you read it, the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, How, erect, at the outermost gates With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress; 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; It is but a legend, I know,— Of the ancient Rabbinical lore, 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 EPIMETHEUS ; OR, THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian ? As with magic circles, bound me ? Ah! how cold are their caresses! O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture! Children of my golden leisures! Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, Disenchantment! Disillusion! 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 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, O my Sibyl, my deceiver! 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 ! THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me 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 A sudden rush from the stairway, 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, In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 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 foe 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 her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, "It is better to sink than to yield!" With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! And without a seam! SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOUR 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. WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the Wayside Inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road! O little bands! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask ; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, An weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white Direct from heaven, their source Refracted through the mist of years, How lurid looks this soul of mine! OUT of the bosom of the Air, SNOW-FLAKES. Out of the cloud-folds of her garments Over the woodlands brown and bare, Silent, and soft, and slow Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make This is the poem of the Air, This is the secret of despair, |