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, 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!" Q In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklets 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, 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 atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, 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 P How, erect, at the outermost gates 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 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 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, 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. |