But wisest Fate says no,

This must not yet be so;

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy

That on the bitter cross

Must redeem our loss,

So both himself and us to glorify:

Yet first, to those chained in sleep,

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.

With such a horrid clang

As on Mount Sinai rang,

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake;

The aged earth, aghast

With terror of that blast,

Shall from the surface to the center shake,

When at the world's last session,

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss

Full and perfect is,

But now begins; for from this happy day The old Dragon underground,

In straiter limits bound,

Not half so far casts his usurped sway;

And wroth to see his kingdom fail,

Swings the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb;

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell,

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er,

And the resounding shore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;

From haunted spring, and dale

Edged with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

With flower-inwoven-tresses torn

The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth,

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns and altars round,

Affrights the flamens at their service quaint;

And the chill marble seems to sweat,

While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baälim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth,

Heaven's queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;

The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled,

Hath left in shadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue;

In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue;

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis and Orus and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest;

Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;

In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark,

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand;

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So when the sun in bed,

Curtained with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,

And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see! The Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest.

Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star

Hath fixed her polished car

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;

And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE

THEODORE PARKER

O thou great Friend to all the sons of men,
Who once appear'dst in humblest guise below,
Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain,
To call thy brethren forth from want and woe!—
Thee would I sing. Thy truth is still the light
Which guides the nations groping on their way,
Stumbling and falling in disastrous night,
Yet hoping ever for the perfect day.

Yes, thou art still the life; thou art the way
The holiest know,-light, life, and way of heaven;
And they who dearest hope and deepest pray
Toil by the truth, life, way that thou hast given;

And in thy name aspiring mortals trust

To uplift their bleeding brothers rescued from the dust.

MARY'S GIRLHOOD

GABRIEL CHARLES DANTE ROSSETTI

This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect

God's virgin. Gone is a great while, and she
Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee.

Unto God's will she brought devout respect,
Profound simplicity of intellect

And supreme patience. From her mother's knee
Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity;

Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect.

So held she through her girlhood; as it were
An angel-watered lily, that near God

Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home
She woke in her white bed, and had no fear
At all, yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed:
Because the fullness of time was come.

DOMINE QUO VADIS?

WILLIAM WATSON

Darkening the azure roof of Nero's world,
From smouldering Rome the smoke of ruin curled;
And the fierce populace went clamoring-

"These Christian dogs, 'tis they have done this thing!"
So to the wild wolf Hate were sacrificed

The panting, huddled flock whose crime was Christ.

Now Peter lodged in Rome, and rose each morn
Looking to be ere night in sunder torn

By those blind hands that with inebriate zeal

Burned the strong saints, or broke them on the wheel, Or flung them to the lions to make mirth

For dames that ruled the lords that ruled the earth.

And unto him their towering rocky hold,

Repaired those sheep of the Good Shepherd's fold
In whose white fleece as yet no blood or foam
Bear witness to the ravening fangs of Rome.
"More light, more cheap," they cried, "we hold our lives
Than chaff the flail or dust the whirlwind drives:
As chaff they are winnowed and as dust are blown;
Nay, they are nought; but priceless is thine own.
Not in yon streaming shambles must thou die;
We counsel, we entreat, we charge thee, fly!"
And Peter answered: "Nay, my place is here;
Through the dread storm, this ship of Christ I steer.
Blind is the tempest, deaf the roaring tide,
And I, His pilot, at the helm abide."

Then One stood forth, the flashing of whose soul
Enrayed his presence like an aureole.
Eager he spake; his fellows, ere they heard,
Caught from his eyes the swift and leaping word:
"Let us His vines, be in the wine-press trod,
And poured a beverage for the lips of God;

"Or, ground as wheat of His eternal field,
Bread for His table let our bodies yield.
Behold, the church hath other use for thee;
Thy safety is her own, and thou must flee.
Ours be the glory at her call to die,
But quick and whole God needs His great ally."

And Peter said: "Do lords of spear and shield
Thus leave their hosts uncaptained on the field,
And from some mount of prospect watch afar
The havoc of the hurricane of war?