« ElőzőTovább »
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, 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,
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, 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
With the song's irresistible stress;
By music they throb to express.
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 fervor and passion of prayer;
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
Into garlands of purple and red;
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know,-
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,
, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
To quiet its fever and pain.
OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT.
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 Fields Elysian ?
What! are these the guests whose glances
Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances
As with magic circles bound me ?
Ah! how cold are their caresses !
Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses
Fall the hyacinthine blossoms !
O my songs ! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture !
Fade and perish with the capture ?
Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
In the dark of branches hidden.
Disenchantment! Disillusion !
Must each noble aspiration
Lassitude, renunciation ?
Not with steeper fall nor faster,
From the sun's serene dominions,
Icarus fell with shattered pinions !
Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora!
Why did mighty Jove create thee
If to win thee is to hate thee?
No, not hate thee! for this feeling
Of unrest and long resistance
O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamour,
Thou, beloved, never leavest;
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.
Weary hearts by thee are lifted,
Struggling souls by thee are strengthened,
Lives, like days in summer, lengthened !
Therefore art thou ever dearer,
O my Sibyl, my deceiver !