I bowed my face, in awe and fear, On the dear child who slumbered near, Oh God!" I said, "THY WILL BE DONE!" THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. "GET ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day! Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away! 'Tis the vintage of blood—'t is the fullness of time, And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime ! The warning was spoken- the righteous had gone, 'T was an evening of beauty; the air was perfume, The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom; And softly the delicate viol was heard, Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance; And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free, As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree. Where the shrines of foul idols were lighted on high, Hark! the growl of the thunder-the quaking of earth! Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song And the low tone of love had been whispered along; For the fierce flames went lightly o'er palace and bower, Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour! Down-down, on the fallen, the red ruin rained, The last throb of anguish was fearfully given; THE CRUCIFIXION. SUN-LIGHT upon Judea's hills! And on the waves of Galilee On Jordan's stream, and on the rills That feed the dead and sleeping sea! Most freshly from the green wood springs. The light breeze on its scented wings; And gaily quiver in the sun The cedar tops of Lebanon ! A few more hours a change hath come! That Sacrifice! the death of Him The High and ever Holy One! Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim, And blacken the beholding Sun! The wonted light hath fled away, Night settles on the middle day, The dead are waking underneath! They wander in the eye of day! The temple of the Cherubim, Well may the cavern-depths of Earth And shall the sinful heart, alone, Behold unmoved the atoning hour, When Nature trembles on her throne, And Death resigns his iron power? Oh, shall the heart-whose sinfulness Gave keenness to His sore distress, And added to His tears of bloodRefuse its trembling gratitude! THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. WHERE Time the measure of his hours Where, to her poet's turban stone, The Spring her gift of flowers imparts, Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts : There sat the stranger, where the shade Strange trees and fruits above him hung, And strange bright blossoms shone around, Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard, No Christian garb, nor Christian word, Nor church with Sabbath bell chimes glad, |