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, Crying, "Awake! it is the day."
It said unto the forest, "Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing."
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near."
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, And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ
MAY 28, 1857.
It was fifty years ago
In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.
And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee."
"Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; 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 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,
Though at times his heart beats wild 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 It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return!"
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, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's 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, 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.
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, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
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?
How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits,
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 Chaunt 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, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below;
From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore 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.
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.
When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, 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 Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain,
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