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Like him, who, breathing mercy to the last,
Pray'd till the bitterness of death was past:
E'en for his murderers pray'd, in that dark hour,
When his soul yielded to affliction's power,
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad,
"Hast thou forsaken me, my God, my God?"
E'en thus the monarch stood; his pray'r arose,
Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes,
"To Thee my spirit I commend," he cried,
"And my lost people, Father! be their guide!"
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But the sharp steel descends; the blow is given,
And answer'd by a thunder-peal from Heaven,
Earth, stain'd with blood, convulsive terror owns,
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones.
(To be continued.)
