I heard the wailing and the cries, entreaties and laments,
From ruined huts and cities that reached us on our way.
But ah! what use in pausing all powerless before pain?
Our task is to relieve it; then do not halt nor stay!

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!
Like fog the gray dust rises up to stifle and choke our breath.
Oh, tear thy way through these frightful mounds, break through
them and speed away!

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.
At the wild ringing of thy hoofs, old hopes like giants woke;
Old laws are crushed, old tears are shed, old sounds are dying
fast.

And in thy flight, at daybreak, on a lofty table-land,
New giants, new insurgents, new heroes we shall spy.
The sons of suffering are they, who in this hostile age

Were born in blood, are wroth with blood, and wish in blood to die.

When we see columns rolling up, armed with the hurricane,
We by their side will march along the pathway to the Aim.
Of glory and the crowning of the martyrs I shall sing;

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,
Thou must fly on-one effort more, amid the fires of morn!

I am athirst for victory, my noble steed, like thee.

A few more ringing steps, my steed, and one last bound! and then
What a procession, what a host, all glad and full of might!
"Tis freedom's pioneers; their swords flash out life-giving rays,
And Brotherhood they celebrate in morning's glorious light.

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.
The triumph is the mighty law of beauty infinite.

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,
Demands a warning word. There will, we know,
Be ascribed to us by the giddy, thoughtless crowd
False motives, hidden hatred, and what not,-
And that's to be expected, certainly.

We understand our people. Our entire lives,
Replete with sanctity and honest deeds,
Will, in the heated moment, be forgot.
"Twill be forgot that Simeon and I,

Most hoary of the Elders, have with sweat
Of intellect safeguarded steadfastly

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
Or silent let it gnaw our guilty hearts?
Alas, we have not long to live. A year
Or two can matter little,-more or less.
We might have had a year or more of peace
Among our neighbors.

Anna

II

Same Scene

I am her mother. I have brought her up
In the ways of virtue: taught her what her sex
Should understand: marked out her duties clearly,
And bred in her a most lofty sense of faith
And honor. Never, as all know, has she
In the slightest failed us. Until today she stood
Unchallenged in her purity. The wives

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!
Now, Elders, think. Be just. Be men.
Decide that, having held so long her life
Immaculate, she has on a sudden snapped
The iron chains of habit for a whim, and did
What is repulsive to her nature and

Her training? What! Is conscience such a light
And fickle thing? Our race must answer "No!"
Our breeding is a bar to our desires.

Yet what desires could my Susanna harbor?

Is she not Queen of Israel and wife

Of the best of men, Jehoiachin, and graced
With lovely children? Will you rate her with
The common wenches, and imagine that
Susanna, in her triple sanctity,

Would yield, a ready victim, to a crude
And shameless passion? If so, my judges, why,
What judgment are you passing on your wives
And daughters, not to say upon yourselves?

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