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, 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; 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 be 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, And the legend, I feel, is a part The frenzy and fire of the brain, EPIMETHEUS; OR, THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, 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, As with magic circles, bound me ? Ah! how cold are their caresses! Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture ! Children of my golden leisures! A prophetic whisper stealing 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 strength- Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 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, FLIGHT THE SECOND. A DAY OF SUNSHINE. O GIFT of God! O perfect day: Through every fibre of my brain, I feel the electric thrill, the touch I hear the wind among the trees And over me unrolls on high every Where through a sapphire sea the sun Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! O Life and Love! O happy throng THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence; 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, And there will I keep you for ever, 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, ENCELADUS. 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 !" And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, Ah me! for the land that is sown Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, See, see the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the 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, 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! Shall be one again, 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, 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 hands! 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, Am weary, thinking of your task. OUT of the bosom of the Air, 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! SNOW-FLAKES. Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 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, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, |