Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts Drink up the ebbing spirit-then the hard Of heart and violent of hand restores The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee, Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile For ages, while each passing year had brought Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world With their abominations; while its tribes, Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs But thou, the great reformer of the world, In their green pupilage, their lore half learned— As on the threshold of their vast designs, down. Alas! I little thought that the stern power Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must ceaseFor he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. which thou This faltering verse, Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have A name of which the wretched shall not think As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant stepsRest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier life Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. Now thou art not-and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance he who bears Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look W. C. BRYANT. "Room for the Leper! Room!” "ROOM 00 for the leper! room!" And as he came, The cry passed on— "Room for the leper! room!" Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills "Room for the leper!" And aside they stood, 'Twas now the depth Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, A torpor on his frame, which not the speed The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepened beneath the hard unmoistened scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair. -And Helon was a leper! Day was breaking When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp |