From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor 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.
It was the winter wild While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him Has doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize:
No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hookèd chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began; The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed Whispering new joys to the mild ocean-- Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.
The stars with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering And Heaven, as at some festival Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.