Abraham. And whom Forgotten? Like the fawning dog I feed. To the great God who made and feedeth all. Abraham. I waited till he blessed mine eyes at morn, Oh, foul idolater! And darest thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent? Forth with thee, wretch: for he that made thy god, Fire-worshiper. [A violent storm is heard rising.] And on a night like this! me, poor old man, A hundred years of age! Abraham. [Urging him away.] Not reverencing The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence. Fire-worshiper. Thou hadst a father!-think of his gray hairs, Houseless, and cuffed by such a storm as this. Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not him. Fire-worshiper. I have a wife, as aged as myself, And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it, No, not a day; she is so used to me ; So propped up by her other feeble self. I pray thee, strike us not both down. Abraham. [Still urging him.] God made Husband and wife, and must be owned of them, Else he must needs disown them. Fire-worshiper. Abraham. We have children One of them, sir, a daughter, who next week Upon the watch for me. Spare, O spare her! She's a good creature, and not strong. Mine ears Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy, [Abraham pushes him out; and remains alone speaking.] The Voice. For if ever God came at night-time upon the world, 'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds, The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder, Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds, Beneath the touching of the foot of God. That was God's speaking in the heavens,-that last, An inward utterance coming by itself. What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord, [A dead silence; and then a still small voice.] Abraham! Abraham. Where art thou, Lord and who is it that speaks So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn And dare to face thy presence? The Voice. Who but He Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn? I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake; Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in? Have I, although he did deny me, borne And couldst thou not endure him one sole night, Abraham. Lord! I have sinned, The Voice. And will go forth, and if he be not dead, Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies Behold and learn. [The voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of Abraham. O loving God! the lamb itself's his pillow, And in his sleep he smileth. I, mean time, L.-THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 1. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 2. Ah, what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the Death-Angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! 3. I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 4. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts, sounds the Tartar gong. 5. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests, upon their teocallis, Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; 6. The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 7. The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 8. Is it, O Man, with such discordant noises, 9. Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 10. The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! 11. Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace! 12. Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals LI.-DRAFTED. MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK. 1. My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie-as delicate, too, in his looks. Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks; He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks? 2. He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest. Too slender for over-much study-why, his master has made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common-and you have drafted a child at his play! 3. "Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall." 4. "Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay. |