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 mediæval 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.

CHILDREN.

COME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,-
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; But in mine is the wind of Autumn,

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us,
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,-

That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing,
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

DAYBREAK,

A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,. Ye mariners the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."

It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow, the day is near."

It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down and hail the coming morn."

It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet; in quiet lie."

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,
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.