No more shall battle's lurid gleam
The cloudless sky of peace obscure;
Nor blood becrimson field, or stream,
Nor avarice grind down the poor;
But onward let thy progress be
A pageant, beautiful and grand;
May He who e'er has guided thee
Protect thee still, my native land!
Echoes from Galilee.
What means this gathering multitude,
Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,
As various as the billows rude
That sweep thy ever restless sea?
Can but the mandate of a King
So varied an assemblage bring?
Behold the noble, rich, and great,
From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,
Down to the lowest dregs of fate,
From mightiest even to the least;
Yes, in this motley throng we find
The palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.
Is this some grand affair of state,
A coronation, or display,
By some vainglorious potentate,—
Or can this concourse mark the day
Of some victorious hero's march
Homeward, through triumphal arch?
Or, have they come to celebrate
Some sacred sacerdotal rite;
By civic feast, to emulate
Some deed, on history's pages bright?
Or can this grand occasion be
Some battle's anniversary?
But wherefore come the halt and blind?
What comfort can the pain-distressed
In such a tumult hope to find?
What is there here, to offer rest
To those, whom adverse fate has hurled,
Dismantled, on a hostile world?
Let us approach! A form we see,
Fairest beyond comparison;
For such an heavenly purity,
From other eyes, hath never shown;
Nor such a calm, majestic brow
On earth hath ne'er appeared, till now.