But serene in the rapturous throng, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, To sounds that ascend from below ; From the spirits on earth that adore, 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. Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old medieval tradition,qu£ SAT The beautiful, strange superstition, s40 But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, 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 EPIMETHEUS, tiny & ar „set I brogd sit bra JOR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. 10 a and sɗs to guf Læs voreıl erT HAVE I dreamed? or was it realer T What I saw as in a vision, neblog adT When to marches hymeneal, In the land of the ideal, Moved my thought o'er fields Elysian? What! are these the guests whose glances As with magic circles, bound me? Ah! how cold are their caresses! Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! O my songs! whose winsome measures Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, Like the wild birds singing o'er us Come at last to this conclusion, out del Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation ? Not with steeper fall nor faster, Icarus fell with shattered pinions! ⠀ Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling Is but passionate appealing, O'er the chords of our existence. Him whom thou dost once enamour, In life's discord, strife, and clamor, 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, Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl, my deceiver ! For thou makest each mystery clearer, When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! Let us turn and wander thither. |