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 FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ
MAY 28, 1857
It was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.
And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.""Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God."And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvellous tale.
So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold;And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;
It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!"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.
SANDALPHON
Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air,--Have you read it,--the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, 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 Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress;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 fervor 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 mediaeval 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.
FLIGHT THE SECOND
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.
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 They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!
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, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!
ENCELADUS
