POETRY.
PASCHAL (IN TIME OF WRONG AND UNREST).
Tkoven still Thy plague-clouds blot the heaven, Staffiess our hands ! We do not gird Our loins, and in our souls no leaven Of Paschal penitence is stirred.
We go within the tents of sin, And there we dwell, to feast and quaff The wino of hell and only know The worship of the Golden Calf.
In Pleasure's wilderness we spend What Thou dust grant, and should it fail, Look to the Lord of Sloth to send, Gift-free, the manna and the quail.
No shepherd for Thy faithless flock, With power to guide, to guard, to bless, No Moses' hand to smite the rock Of satisfying righteousness.
Yet, we have bled and freely shed The purple tribute of our veins.
For Thee we fought ! Have we not bought Some little respite from our pains?
Imperfect, Lord, our sacrifice !
Still, when in wrath Thou passest o'er,
Look down upon the blood that lies
Fresh on the lintel of our door. Thula. G. Pisan.
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