SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it been About these deserts blown! How many strange vicissitudes has seen How many histories known! Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er, When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight His favourite son they bore. Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Crushed it beneath their tread; Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air Scattered it as they sped; Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Illumed the wilderness; Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms In half-articulate speech; These have passed over it, or may have passed! Now in this crystal tower Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, It counts the passing hour. And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;-- Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, A form of fear and dread. The column and its broader shadow run, Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BLACK shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall A tide-like darkness overwhelms A warm, soft vapour fills the air, Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. THE OPEN WINDOW. But shadow, and silence, and sadness, The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone; Will be heard in dreams alone! I pressed his warm, soft hand! PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's wingèd steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves; And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'Twas the daily call to labour, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapour veiled; Not the less he breathed the odours That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found, And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapours cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; Till at length the bell at midnight But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'Twas an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day's humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee!" And the startled artist woke,- And therefrom he carved an image, KING WITLAF'S DRINKING- WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, They remembered one Saint more." Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head, He clutched the golden bowl, The jovial monks forbore, And died away They laid him in his ship, Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear. They launched the burning ship' Till like the sun it seemed, So perish the old Gods! Walk the young bards and sing. Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood! THE SINGERS. GOD sent his singers upon earth streams, Playing the music of our dreams. The second, with a bearded face, A gray, old man, the third and last, And those who heard the Singers three To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright SUSPIRIA. TAKE them, O Death! and bear away And his invisible hands to-day have been And evermore beside him on his way To make the scene more fair; O holy trust! O endless sense of rest; To lay his head upon the Saviour's And thus to journey on! THE GOLDEN LEGEND. THE old Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was originally written in Latin, in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292. But He called his book simply "Legends of the Saints." The epithet of Golden was given it by his admirers; for, as Wynkin de Worde says, Like as passeth gold in value all other metals, so this Legend exceedeth all other books." Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, calls it "a book written by a man of a leaden heart for the basenesse of the errours, that are without wit or reason, and of a brazen forehead, for his impudent boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous and incredible." This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vignay, and in the fifteenth into English by William Caxton. It has lately been made more accessible by a new French translation: La Légende Dorée, traduite du Latin, par M. G. B. Paris, 1850. There is a copy of the original, with the Gesta Longobardorum appended, in the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. The title-page is wanting; and the volume begins with the Tabula Legendorum. I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies of life and death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. The original may be found in Mailath's Altdeutsche Gedichte, with a modern German version. There is another in Marbach's Volksbücher, No. 32: |