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 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.

EPIMETHEUS;

OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT.

HAVE I dreamed? or was it real,

What I saw as in a vision,

When to marches hymeneal,

In the land of the ideal,

Moved my thought o'er field Elysian?

What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me; These the wild, bewildered fancies,

That with dithyrambic dances,

As with magic circles, bound me?

Ah! how cold are their caresses!
Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms!
Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses,
And from loose, dishevelled tresses,
Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!

O my songs! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
Voices single, and in chorus,

Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.

Disenchantment! Dis-illusion!
Must each noble aspiration
Come at last to this conclusion,
Jarring discord, wild confusion,
Lassitude, renunciation ?

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 to hate thee! for this feeling
Öf unrest and long resistance

Is but passionate appealing,
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, Lives, like days in summer, lengthened.

Therefore art thou ever dearer,
O my Sibyl, my deceiver!

For thou makest each mystery clearer,
And the unattained seems nearer

When thou fillest by heart with fever!

Muse of all the Gifts and Graees !
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.

NOTES.

NOTE 1. Acadie, home of the happy. Page 9.

[So much of the interest of this charming poem is derived from the very foundation of the narrative, the simple dignity and earnestness of the characters, and the deep religious tone by which it is pervaded, that the publisher of the present edition conceives it may be acceptable to the reader to give the historical fact which has inspired so exquisite an ideal picture. There are many, doubtless, who have never read the cruel story, and such will be glad to see it in a few words, condensed from the best authority on the subject. The historical accuracy of the poem enhances its beauty. The fact as given by Haliburton, in his "History of Nova Scotia," is, in brief, as follows:

Some dispute existing between the English and the French governments respecting the territorial limits of either, to settle the matter, the region about Hudson's Bay, and the province of Acadie, since called Nova Scotia, were, in 1713, ceded to Great Britain.

Acadie was inhabited by an excellent French population. When these good people found their country yielded to England, and themselves no longer subjects of the French king, they were grieved to be forced to acknowledge another master. They knew that the French and English were hostile to each other, and they dreaded to be compelled, some time or other, to take up arms against Frenchmen; they therefore entreated the English that they might never be forced to so painful a service, and might be excused from taking the oath of allegiance.

This request received no special attention, but, for a time, a kind forbearance was exercised toward them. After a period of forty years the English government came to the conclusion that these neutral French, as they were called, might become dangerous to its interests, by taking part with the Canadian French, its active enemies. On account of this presumed danger, without the least alleged provocation, or the least show of justice, the English government took upon itself to drive out of their possessions this peaceable, prosperous, and unoffending people.

The Acadians had no warning of their fate. At harvest-time they were ordered to assemble in a certain district, and being collected, were informed they were prisoners, that their lands, cattle, and moveables were no longer their own, but were confiscated by government,-that they might take what they could convey away, but must immediately quit the province.

In one single district, two hundred and fifty-five houses, as many barns, eleven mills, and one church were destroyed. Ships were in readiness to convey the persecuted Acadians to different parts of the continent,-to Louisiana, to French Guiana in South America, and to distant places in the then British provinces on the Atlantic.

These people had been remarkable for their industry, their skilful husbandry, their pure morals, and their exemplary piety. Their lands produced wheat and corn, potatoes and flax abundantly. Their houses were convenient, and furnished with all things necessary to comfort. Their numerous flocks afforded the wool which was manufactured in the family for their clothing; they had no paper-money, and little silver or gold, and lived by simple exchange. So little contention rose among them, that courts and lawyers were needless; the wise and experienced decided their small differences. They were Catholics; the priests drew up their public