With bolder mien, and shown in strong relief,
Ezekiel, with a brother’s strict embrace,
Greeted the grasp of that returned chief;
Yet sighed bitterly before his face,
Because the furbished sword contemned the rod,
And, for a trial, glowed with its disgrace,
Sanguine with slaughter. Let it rage! For God
Will smite his hands together, and refrain
From fury—but the vintage must be trod.
To men on earth his was a lovely strain,