I heard the wailing and the cries, entreaties and laments, Through the death-agony, my steed, we passed with tearless eyes. Oh, do not halt! Oh, do not stay! Brave be that heart of thine! From this time onward, I will burn Hope's torches blazing bright. To halt means death to us; pause not, O gallant steed of mine! Aloft on thy galloping form, full oft in our journey ere today I have heard how thy swift, spark-scattering hoofs, as ever we forward flee, Have many and many a time crushed bones, that fell beneath their tread, And the skulls with their empty sockets dark gazed at me-didst thou see? I tell thee, under thy shoes I heard the skeletons break and crash, But I kept silence. My lips are dumb. Halt not, halt not, my steed! I will bury my sobs and sighs of grief in my soul's abysmal depths; Let nothing live but my anger hot! Pause not, but onward speed! Oh, pause not, falter not in thy course, wild creature of marblewhite! Tears will not banish the Pain of Life, nor drive out its woe and wrong. Nay, the Ideal shall toll, shall toll the bells of glowing wrath, The cranes, far flying, will call to us; oh, follow their distant song! But where does thy path lead? What is this? My steed, hast thou lost thy mind? The ashes! Oh, the desolate plains of ashes and ruins gray! Lift up thy forehead, lift up thine eyes, let me cover them with my hand! Halt not, 'tis the Crimson, the Crimson dread; red blood beneath us lies. Across my face to blind mine eyes I have pulled my fluttering scarf; Halt not! What good would it do, my steed, to pause here with useless sighs? Ah, once, accompanied by my griefs, my lyre shed tears of blood; Weeping I hate from this time on; thou only art my soul. Thou breathest battle, for glory keen, and I am thy prince, thy slave. Thy form was worshipped by glorious Greece. Oh, lift me to my Goal! The sound of the wind is like a horn that is winded far away; The forests, ranged like troops of war, stood ready as we passed. And in thy flight, at daybreak, on a lofty table-land, Were born in blood, are wroth with blood, and wish in blood to die. When we see columns rolling up, armed with the hurricane, My lyre will play, that gallant day, my Torches burn and flame! The day has dawned, has dawned at last! I am thy knight, thy slave! The slope is difficult and steep, but, breathing heavily, I am athirst for victory, my noble steed, like thee. A few more ringing steps, my steed, and one last bound! and then Here may'st thou halt. Be blest, my steed! Worthy of God art thou! Tears fill my soul as mine Ideal I gaze on and admire. Lo, there six sombre centuries are standing, armed with fire! I, armed already, will arm thee. O'er my shoulder burns thy torch. They like the tempest wish to walk, under the dawning's glow, Laden with justice. Oh, the land is barren and athirst! Lo, from our flight the giant Hope sparks in the paths will sow! HIGH LIGHTS IN THE STORY Ichabot OF SUSANNA BY J. WARSHAW. I Court of the Elders, outside of Babylon That which we are about to do, O judges, We understand our people. Our entire lives, Most hoary of the Elders, have with sweat The holy laws and rites of Israel: Have sacrificed our gentler feelings to The single purpose of our painful task Of vigilance for God's commands: have been The faithful, fasting shepherds of our flock. How much we've loved you, pled for you on High, Will be forgot, no doubt. In our most sacred duty. Yet are we strong What we say Will stupefy you, as it stunned us both. Have we not pondered, Simeon, if we Should loose the monstrous crime upon the world Anna II Same Scene I am her mother. I have brought her up Of Israel, your wives,-all patterned after This my poor child, who shrinks and cowers and cringes Shall we Before these hostile faces,-she, the Queen! Her training? What! Is conscience such a light Yet what desires could my Susanna harbor? Is she not Queen of Israel and wife Of the best of men, Jehoiachin, and graced Would yield, a ready victim, to a crude III Jehoiachin's Palace Jehoiachin-We are so strangely made! I know not whether I pity more her shame and suffering Or my own injured feelings. Poor, dear child! My heart is rent for you, and even were |