Gleamed white from underneath And to the King of the Saxons, He stretched his brown hand, and said, DAYBREAK. 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, 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, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857. Read by Mr. Longfellow at a dinner, at which he presided, given to Agassiz on the occasion. 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, And he wandered away and away And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times his heart beats wild Though at times he hears in his dreams "Hark! And the mother at home says, It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" CHILDREN. on the 'February 1, 1849. I wrote another poem to-day, · children whom I heard rejoicing overhead while I sat below here in rather melancholy mood." 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, Where thoughts are singing swallows In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, But in mine is the wind of Autumn And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us What the leaves are to the forest, 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, 0 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, Ye are better than all the ballads For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. SANDALPHON. of the Finished the "November 2, 1857. In the evening, Scherb read to me some curious Talmudic legends from Corrodi's Chiliasmus, great angel Sandalphon. . . January 18, 1858. poem Sandalphon." HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, How, erect, at the outermost gates With his feet on the ladder of light, The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress; But serene in the rapturous throng, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, |