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Wherever now the foot of Man shall bear him, Wherever by the final call o'ertaken,

He is no stranger reckoned, or an outcast, But hears exclaim the Universal Mother, "Come, child of mine, and slumber in my bosom."

SABINE BARING-GOULD.

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 marvelous 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,
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

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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.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGfellow.

Repent One Day Before Thy Death HOLD thou thy friend's honor dear as is

thine own,

Be not to hasty passion prone;

And since life 's but a fleeting breath,
Repent one day before thy death.

RABBI ELEAzar.

Value of Repentance

THE

'HE Doctors in the Talmud say
That in this world one only day
In true repentance spent will be
More worth than Heaven's Eternitie.

ROBERT HERRICK.

III

MEDIAEVAL PERIOD

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