For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part ; For the gods see every where. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house, where gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete, Build to-day, then, strong and sure, And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye And one boundless reach of sky. SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOURGLASS. A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, How many weary centuries has it been How many strange vicissitudes has seen, Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er, When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air Scattered it as they sped; Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Held close in her caress, Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith Illumed the wilderness; Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms And singing slow their old Armenian psalms Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, These have passed over it, or may have passed! And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ;— Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, Dilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread. And onward, and across the setting sun, The column and its broader shadow run, The vision vanishes! These walls again Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BLACK shadows fall From the lindens tall That lift aloft their massive wall And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie. But the night is fair, And every where A warm, soft vapour fills the air, And distant sounds seem near; And above, in the light Swift birds of passage wing their flight I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, Oh, say not so! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions fly, Seeking a warmer clime. |