And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, And hurried landward far away, It said unto the forest, "Shout! It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, It whispered to the fields of corn, Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry-tower, It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, OTHER THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. May 28, 1857. It was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, And Nature, the old nurse, took Thy Father has written for thee." "Come wander with me," she said 66 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 And whenever the way seemed long, 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 Though at times he hears in his dreams From glaciers clear and cold; 66 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! Ye open the eastern windows, In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, Ah! what would the world be to us What the leaves are to the forest, That to the world are children; Come to me, O ye children! What the birds and the winds are singing For what are all our contrivings, Ye are better than all the ballads For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. 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, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates With his feet on the ladder of light, The Angels of the Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress; But serene in the rapturous throng, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, To sounds that ascend from below; From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore prayer; In the fervour and passion of 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 beneath the great arch of the portal, |