SAND OF THE DESERT. Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms Pacing the Red Sea beach, And singing slow their old Armenian psalms In half-articulate speech; Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, And resolute in heart! 65 These have passed over it, or may have passed! 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, Dilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread. And onward, and across the setting sun, Across the boundless plain, The column and its broader shadow run, Till thought pursues in vain. J The vision vanishes! These walls again Shut out the lurid sun, Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; The half-hour's sand is run! BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BLACK shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky; And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie. But the night is fair, And everywhere A warm, soft, vapour fills the air, And distant sounds seem near; And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 67 I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see. O, say not so! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. THE old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. THE OPEN WINDOW. 69 69 But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog Who would return no more. They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand! |