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N that building, long and low,
With its windows all a-row,
Dropping, each a hempen bulk.
And the whirring of a wheel,
All its spokes are in my brain.
As the spinners to the end
Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine
By the busy wheel are spun.
Two fair maidens in a swing,
First before my vision pass;
At their shadow on the grass.
Then a booth of mountebanks,
And a girl poised high in air
And a weary look of care.
Then a homestead among farms,
Drawing water from a well ;
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
While the rope coils round and round
Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Then within a prison-yard,
Laughter and indecent mirth;
Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a school-boy, with his kite
And an eager, upward look;
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Anchors dragged through faithless sand;
Sailors feeling for the land.
All these scenes do I behold,
In that building long and low;
And the spinners backward go.
AVE you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,.
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 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;
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
But haunts me and holds me the more.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
When I look from my window at night,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
To quiet its fever and pain.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
ETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence :
Yet I know by their merry eyes