To leave them where they are, unsettled,
And praise the Lord who governs all.
"SVALA, SVALA HONOM!"[1]
NOT for thy prophetic music,
Of the summer to be born,
Not for sake of plumage shining
In the early April morn,
Listen I, O circling swallow,
In the hush of twilight rest,
To thy vesper hymn so tender,
Evening-hymn of cheer and rest:
"Svala, svala honom!"
Since the strange unwonted twilight
Hid the thorn-encircled Head,
Thou, O bird of consolation,
Hast thy word of comfort said.
On the cross above Him, staying
Wing and foot, the legend saith,
Thou, O sympathizing swallow,
Chanted till his dying breath:
"Svala, svala honom!"
'Tis a pretty legend truly,
Born beneath the midnight sun,
From the monkish convent story,
Or the painted missal won.
- ↑ "Console, console him!"
