218
THE WHITE SLAVES.
The crescent moon has hardly filled since a fair child of nine,
Her brow just tinted by the land where warmer sunbeams shine,
With her small mouth all tremulous, and eyelids wet with tears,
And cheek now crimson and now pale with changing hopes and fears,
Stood by the church's altar,—'tis there such prayers belong,—
And asked her life and womanhood of the great, pitying throng.
Right largely did they answer, and listening angels bore,
Back to our Lord in heaven one burning story more. . . .
Her brow just tinted by the land where warmer sunbeams shine,
With her small mouth all tremulous, and eyelids wet with tears,
And cheek now crimson and now pale with changing hopes and fears,
Stood by the church's altar,—'tis there such prayers belong,—
And asked her life and womanhood of the great, pitying throng.
Right largely did they answer, and listening angels bore,
Back to our Lord in heaven one burning story more. . . .
Up the volcano's sloping sides the oak and chestnut climb,
And vineyards smile and orchards wave as floats the vesper chime.
'Tis just before the thunder-burst, but the wide heaven is still
As when an Indian-summer noon lies sleeping on the hill;
A roar—a crash—a fiery hell shot through the quivering sky,
And oak and vine and orchard bloom in blackened ruin lie!—
Beneath us a volcano heaves of more portentous name,
And vineyards smile and orchards wave as floats the vesper chime.
'Tis just before the thunder-burst, but the wide heaven is still
As when an Indian-summer noon lies sleeping on the hill;
A roar—a crash—a fiery hell shot through the quivering sky,
And oak and vine and orchard bloom in blackened ruin lie!—
Beneath us a volcano heaves of more portentous name,
