Brief was the thought, the dream, the pang,
For high Devotion came,
And brought the martyr's speechless joy,
And wing'd the prayer of flame,
And stamp'd upon the marble face
Heaven's smile serenely sweet,
And bade the icy, quivering lip
The praise of God repeat.
Strange, olive brows with tears were wet,
As a lone grave was made,
And there, mid Asia's arid sands
Salvation's herald laid,
But bright that shroudless clay shall burst
From its uncoffin'd bed,
When the Archangel's awful trump
Convenes the righteous dead.
IMPRISONMENT FOR DEBT.
Why do ye tear
Yon lingering tenant from his humble home?
His children cling about him, and his wife
Regardless of the wintery storm, doth stand
Watching his last, far footsteps with a gaze
Of speechless misery. What is his crime?
The murderer's steel in headlong passion rais'd?
Or the red flame, in stealthy malice touch'd
To some unguarded roof? Ah no, ye say
His crime is poverty.
Disease, perchance,
Hath paralyzed his arm, or adverse skies
