« AnteriorContinuar »
Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Ceased writing for a while ;
And an incredulous smile.
He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen,
And wrote down every word " And now the land,” said Othere,
" Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore And ever southward bore
Into a nameless sea.
“And there we hunted the walrus,
The narwhale, and the seal;
Flew our harpoons of steel.
Norsemen of Helgoland;
And dragged them to the strand !" Here Alfred the Truth-Teller
Suddenly closed his book,
Depicted in their look.
Stared at him wild and weir'd,
His tawny, quivering beard. And to the King of the Saxons,
In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said,
“Behold this walrus-tooth'!"
A WIND came up out of the sea,
And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
The rhymes of the universe,
Or his heart began to fail,
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 ;
The Ranz des Vaches of old,
From glaciers clear and cold ;
For his voice I listen and yearn :
And my boy does not return!"
COME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you are at your play, And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
That look towards the sun,
And the brooks of morning run.
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
And the first fall of the snow,
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
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 atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
And the gladness of
That ever were sung or said;
And all the rest are dead.
HAVE you read in the Talmud of old,
Of the limitless realms of the air,-
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ?
How, erect, at the outermost gates
With his feet on the ladder of light,
Alone in the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder,
By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
mong the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless 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.
Into garlands of purple and red ;
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
But haunts me and holds me the more,
When I look from my window at night,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
His pinions in nebulous bars.
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
To quiet its fever and pain.
OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGIT.
HAVE I dreamed ? or was it real,
What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal, In the land of the ideal,
Moved my thought o'er field Elysian? What! are these the guests whose glances
Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me; These the wild, bewildered fancies, That with dithyrambic dances,
As with magic circles, bound me?