« PreviousContinue »
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
There are dreams that cannot die!
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
When I visit the dear old town;
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
And with joy that is almost pain
And the strange and beautiful song,
SANTA FILOMENA. [" At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena ; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels, bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession."-Mrs. JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298.]
WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
The tidal wave of deeper souls
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low!
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A noble type of good,
The symbols that of yore
Of the limitless realms of the air,
Have you read it, -the marvellous story
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels uinumbered, By Jacob was seea, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymu, 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 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, 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
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
To quiet its fever and pain.
A WIND came up out of the sea,
Awake, O bell? proclaim the hour."
This song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
It is not a song
Of the Scuppernong,
Nor the Isabel
And the Muscadel
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
And the fiery flood
Of whose purple blood
For richest and best
Is the wine of the West,
Whose sweet perfume
Fills all the room
And as hollow trees
Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming;
So this crystal hive
Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming
Very good in its way
Is the Verzenay,
But Catawba wine
Has a taste more divine,
There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,
That bears such a grape
Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,
To rack our brains
With the fever-pains
To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,
For a poison malign
Is such Borgia wine,
While pure as a spring
Is the wine I sing,