Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round And firm, as when the rocks were first set ringing. Fresh from their unimaginable mould

They might have seem'd, save that the storms had stain'd them

With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold

In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrain'd them. Breathless the gazers look'd, nigh faint for awe,

Then leap'd, then laugh'd. What was it now they saw?

Myriads of birds.

Myriads of birds, that fill'd The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices! The great, huge, stormy music had been still'd

By the soft needs that nurs'd those small, sweet

noises !

O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall?
Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces?
Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small

Compar'd with Nature's least and gentlest courses. Fears and false creeds may fright the realms awhile: But Heaven and Earth abide their time, and smile.

ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER.*

A Dramatic Parable.

SCENE The inside of a Tent, in which the Patriarch ABRAHAM and a Persian Traveller, a FireWorshipper, are sitting awhile after supper.

Fire-Worshipper (aside). What have I said or done, that by degrees

Mine host hath chang'd his gracious countenance,
Until he stareth on me, as in wrath!

Have I, 'twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise lore?
Or sit I thus too long, and he himself

Would fain be sleeping? I will speak to that.
(Aloud.) Impute it, O my great and gracious lord,
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly,

If mine old eyelids droop against their will,

And I become as one that hath no sense

E'en to the milk and honey of thy words.—

With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help,

My limbs would creep to bed.

*The groundwork of this story is to be found in the works of Dr. Franklin.

Abraham (angrily quitting his seat). In this tent,

never.

Thou art a thankless and an impious man.

Fire-W. (rising in astonishment). A thankless and an impious man! Oh, sir,

My thanks have all but worshipp'd thee.

Abraham.

And whom

Forgotten? like the fawning dog I feed.
From the foot-washing to the meal, and now
To this thy cramm'd and dog-like wish for bed,
I've noted thee; and never hast thou breath'd
One syllable of prayer, or praise, or thanks,
To the great God who made and feedeth all.
Fire-W. Oh, sir, the god I worship is the Fire,
The god of gods; and seeing him not here
In any symbol, or on any shrine,

I waited till he bless'd mine eyes at morn,
Sitting in heaven.

Abraham.

Oh, foul idolator!

And dar'st thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent?

Forth with thee, wretch: for he that made thy god.

And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven,
The invisible and only dreadful God,

Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm,
And try thee in thy foolish god, the fire,

Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of.

S

Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds,

And get thee forth, and wait him.

Fire-W.

[A violent storm is heard rising.

What! unhous'd!

old man,

And on a night like this! me, poor

A hundred years of age!

Abraham (urging him away.) Not reverencing The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence.

Fire-W. Thou hadst a father:-think of his grey

hairs,

Houseless, and cuff'd by such a storm as this.

Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not

him.

Fire-W. I have a wife, as aged as myself,

And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,

No, not a day, she is so used to me,

So propp'd up by her other feeble self.

I pray thee, strike us not both down.

Abraham (still urging him).

God made

Husband and wife, and must be own'd of them,

Else he must needs disown them.

Fire-W.

We have children,

One of them, sir, a daughter, who, next week,

Will all day long be going in and out,

Upon the watch for me; she, too, a wife,

And will be soon a mother. Spare, O spare her!
She's a good creature, and not strong.

Abraham.

Mine ears

Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy,

And to the coming of the Lord and God,

Who will this night condemn thee.

[ABRAHAM pushes him out, and remains alone,

speaking.

For if ever

God came at night-time forth upon the world,
'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds,
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,

Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,
Beneath the touching of the foot of God.

[A tremendous crash of thunder, nearly overhead,
ending in awful mutterings.

That was God's speaking in the heavens,—that last
And inward utterance coming by itself.

What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolator, whom thou abhorrest,

Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.

[A dead silence; and then a still small voice.

The Voice. Abraham!