It is but a legend, I know,— Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; 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 EPIMETHEUS, OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, Moved my thought o'er field 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! O my songs! whose winsome measures Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, Voices single, and in chorus, In the dark of branches hidden. Disenchantment! Dis-illusion! Not with steeper fall nor faster, Icarus fell with shattered pinions. Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling Is but passionate appealing, O'er the chords cf our existence. Him whom thou dost once enamour, 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, For thou makest each mystery clearer, When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! |