.T

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!"

COME to me, O ye children! dad!!
For I hear you at your play,"

ΜΟΥ ΕΙ

And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows, teali

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 atmospheresɔr I oÏ

org boxalarga ta emoteno od: baA For what are all our contrivings, pl] And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks?nd"!

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,

Def

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

Chaunt only one hymn, and expiree

རཱུ

With the song's irresistible stress ;

Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder

By music they throb to express.

77

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