"Cruel was the hand," I said,
"That could draw the bow:
Curses rest upon the head
Of my heartless foe!"
Turning straightway at the sound,
In the tangled wood,
Pale, and bearing many a wound,
There a stranger stood.
Mournfully on me he gazed,
Not a word he said:
But one hand the stranger raised,
And I saw it bled.
Blood was flowing from his side
And his thorn-pierced brow;
"Who has wounded thee?" I cried,
And he answered, "Thou!"
Then I knew the Stranger well,
And with sobs and tears
Prostrate at his feet I fell,
But he soothed my fears.
"Thou hast wounded me, but live,—
And my blessing take:
Henceforth wilt thou not forgive
Freely for my sake?"
Resting in his fond embrace,
Eased of every woe,—
Then I said, with smiling face,
"Jesus, bless my foe!"
THE ORPHAN.
The storm was loud; a murky cloud
O'erhung the midnight sky,
And rude the blast that wildly passed
A lonely orphan by;
But ruder still the bitter thrill
Of woe that rent his heart;
Darker his fears, sadder the tears
That evermore would start.
"Bleak is the storm, and on my form
The winds in fury beat;
A racking pain, torments my brain,
And sore these weary feet;
No ray of light illumes the night,
And here, alas! I roam,
Where tempests howl and wild beasts growl;
Oh, that I had a home!