POETRY.

IN TIME OF SLAUGHTER.

WHEN I weekly knew

An ancient pew, And murmured there The forms of prayer, And thanks, and praise, In the ancient ways, And heard read out During August drought That chapter from Kings The Trinity-time brings ; How the prophet, broken By griefs unspoken, Went heavily away To fast and to pray, And while waiting to die The Lord passed by ; And whirlwind and fire Drew nigher and nigher, And a small voice anon Bade him up and be gone,

I did not apprehend,

As I sat to the end, And watched for a smile Across the south-aisle, That this tale of a seer Which came once a year Might, when sands were heaping, Be like a sweat creeping, Or in any degree Bear on her and me.

When later I stood

By the chancel-rood On a hot afternoon, And read the same words

To the gathered few—

Those of flocks and herds Sitting half aswoon, Who listened thereto As women and men Detached—even then

I did not see What drought there might be

With me, with her, As the lialendar Moved on, and Time Devoured our prime.

But now, at last, When our sun has passed, And spiritless In the wilderness

I shrink from sight

And desire the night (Though, as in old wise,

I might still arise,

Go forth, and stand And prophesy in the land),

I feel the shake

Of wind and earthquake, And consuming fire Nigher and nigher,

And the voice catch clear 3

"What doest thou here?"

THOMAS HARDY.