Yet here they slumber'd not. A sigh arose
Of ardent supplication, for the friend
In durance and in chains. But can ye paint
The astonish'd gaze, with which those tearful eyes
Did fasten on his features, as he stood
Sudden, amid the group?
High Heaven had heard
The prayer of faith. And heard it not the breath
Of gratitude, from every trembling lip,
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts,
Whose holy angel had his servant freed
From the high-handed malice of the Jews,
And from the wrath of Herod?
Ye, who held
The key of prayer, that key which entereth Heaven,
How long will ye be doubtful? and how long
Seek from brief Earth, the help she cannot give,
Choosing her broken cisterns? Say! how long?
THE BROKEN VASE.
So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant Vase,
Beneath my footsteps. 'Tis a pity, sure,
That aught so beautiful, should find its fate,
From careless fingers.
Fain would I divine
Thy history. Who shap'd thy graceful form,
And touch'd thy pure, transparent brow with tints
