The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant 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 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.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his
hands,

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.
THIS Song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,

To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,

When the rain begins

To darken the drear Novembers.
It is not a song

Of the Scuppernong,
From warm Carolinian valleys,
Nor the Isabel

And the Muscadel
That bask in our garden alleys.
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
O'er the waves of the Colorado,
And the fiery flood

Of whose purple blood
Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

For richest and best

Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume

Fills all the room

With a benison on the giver.

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

Is the Verzenay,

way

Or the Sillery soft and creamy;
But Catawba wine

Has a taste more divine,

More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.
There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine,

By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,
That bears such a grape

As grows by the Beautiful River.
Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,

When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,
To rack our brains
With the fever-pains

That have driven the Old World frantic.
To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,

And after them tumble the mixer;
For a poison malign
Is such Borgia wine,

Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring

Is the wine I sing,

And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign,

No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine,
This greeting of mine,

The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,
In her garlands dressed,

On the banks of the Beautiful River.

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!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
Voices single and in chorus,
Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.
Disenchantment! Disillusion!
Must each noble aspiration
Come at last to this conclusion,
Jarring discord, wild confusion,
Lassitude, renunciation !

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
Öf unrest and long resistance
Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamour,
Thou, beloved, never leavest;
In life's discord, strife, and clamour,
Still he feels thy spell of glamour;

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,

And the unattained seems nearer When thou fillest my heart with fever!

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces!

Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces;

Let us turn and wander thither.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF

AGASSIZ.

MAY 28, 1857.

IT was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod;

And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."
And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.
So she keeps him still a child,

And will not let him go,

Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,

And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;
It is growing late and dark,

And my boy does not return!"

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy
sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door:
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir,

And makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this
She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice nor sound betrays
Its deep impassioned gaze.

It comes, the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,-

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds, as if with unseen wings
An angel touched its quivering strings:
And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long?"

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
No hay pájaros en los nidos antaño.—
Spanish Proverb.

THE sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new; the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight? And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest!

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just ;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life-alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed

we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow!

THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers, no garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippo

crene,

Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
And give a bitter taste.
Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers.
Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,

A wreath of fennel wore.
Then in Life's goblet freely press
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the coloured waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight,

The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight,

To see his foeman's face.
Let our unceasing earnest prayer
Be, too, for light,-for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.
O suffering, sad humanity!
O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried!

U