142
TO THE AUTHOR OF ZISKA.
With them that need, Thought's true and living bread,
Whereon the soul that feedeth hath to spare."
Then turning to thy brethren, taking up
Thy country's ancient war-cry, thou dost call
With Him, her blind old Chief, "I claim a Cup,
The Cup of freedom and of light for all;"
Oh, never be thy prayer, thy claim denied
Of God or Man, but as thy soul doth yearn
May'st thou receive in measure far more wide
Than thou dost ask! thy thirst be satisfied
By waters wrung from out a fuller urn
Than thou dost dream of now;
Whereon the soul that feedeth hath to spare."
Then turning to thy brethren, taking up
Thy country's ancient war-cry, thou dost call
With Him, her blind old Chief, "I claim a Cup,
The Cup of freedom and of light for all;"
Oh, never be thy prayer, thy claim denied
Of God or Man, but as thy soul doth yearn
May'st thou receive in measure far more wide
Than thou dost ask! thy thirst be satisfied
By waters wrung from out a fuller urn
Than thou dost dream of now;
Oh, goodly tree,
Though set so deep within the jungle-brake.
The trees that in God's garden[1] planted be
Might envy thee thy beauty! yet they take
A mourning up for thee, because the snake
Is gliding 'twixt thy roots; with burning breath
These flowers of thine, of Loveliness and Death
Show forth the fearful spousals; from the Vine
That hath thee in its clasp drops poison-wine.
Yet dost thou struggle upwards from this lair
Of doleful things, and even now the air
Of open heaven hath fanned thy topmost bough.
Lift higher o'er these under-growths thy brow,
And look on Jacob's tents that whitening lie
Within the sunshine; hearken to the cry
Though set so deep within the jungle-brake.
The trees that in God's garden[1] planted be
Might envy thee thy beauty! yet they take
A mourning up for thee, because the snake
Is gliding 'twixt thy roots; with burning breath
These flowers of thine, of Loveliness and Death
Show forth the fearful spousals; from the Vine
That hath thee in its clasp drops poison-wine.
Yet dost thou struggle upwards from this lair
Of doleful things, and even now the air
Of open heaven hath fanned thy topmost bough.
Lift higher o'er these under-growths thy brow,
And look on Jacob's tents that whitening lie
Within the sunshine; hearken to the cry
- ↑ Ezekiel xxxi. 8, 9, 15.
