THE CHPtlSTIAD. 57 



And sits and mourns, lite some white-robed sire. 



Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves 

 And cinnamon upheaped the sacred pjre, 

 And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. 



He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, 

 And sighing — his papyrus scarf survey'd, 



Woven with dark characters ; then thus address'd 

 The troubled council. 



* * * * 



I. 



Thus far have I pursued ray solemn theme 



With seif-rewarding toil; — thus far have sung 

 Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 



The lyre which I in early days have strung ; 



And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung 

 The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 



On the dark cypress ; and the strings which rung 

 With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er. 

 Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no 

 more. 



And must the harp of Judah sleep again? 



Shall I no more reanimate the lay ? 

 Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men, 



Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 



One little space prolong my mournful day ! 

 One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 



I am a youthful traveller in the way, 

 And this slight boon would consecrate to thee. 

 Ere I with death shake hands, and smile that 1 am free, 

 * * ."^ * 



