CHILDREN. COME to me, O ye children! Ye open the eastern windows, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; With light and air for food, Through them it feels the glow MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town And my youth cames back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." * I remember the sea-fight far away, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods: And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die! There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, * This was the engagement between the Enterprise and Boxer, off the harbour of Portland, in which both captains were slain. They were buried side by side, in the cemetery on Mountjoy. And bring a pallor into the cheek, And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." SANTA FILOMENA.* And lifts us unawares * "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, nymphlike 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. Honour to those whose words or deed, Raise us from what is low! The trenches cold and damp, The cheerless corridors, Pass through the glimmering And flit from room to room. Upon the darkening walls. The light shone and was spent. Nor even shall be wanting here SANDALPHON. 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 With the song's irresistible stress: 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 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, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. CATAWBA WINE. To be sung by the glowing embers When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, And the Muscadel Of whose purple blood Very good in its way Or the Sillery soft and creamy; Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. By Danube or Guadalquivir, As grows by the Beautiful River. When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, That have driven the Old World frantic. And after them tumble the mixer; Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. And to praise it, one needs but name it; Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, The winds and the birds shall deliver On the banks of the Beautiful River. EPIMETHEUS, OR THE POET'S What I saw as in a vision, Moved my thought o'er fields Elysian? What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me; These the wild, bewildered 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 Not with steeper fall nor faster, From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling O'er the chords of our existence. Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted Lives, like days in summer, lengthened. Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl! my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer, |