And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild,
And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high,
White peace came down upon his soul defiled.
In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die
That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still—
His suffering was one long atoning cry.
The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will
He yet found strength his torment dire to face.
The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;
And as the glory of its parting rays
He strove with glazing eye once more to see,
With his last breath he cried in joyful praise
"My God, my God, Thou hast not forsaken me!"
* * * * *
THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833)
Once a strange old man went singing,
Words of scornful admonition
To the streets and markets bringing:
"In the wilds a voice am I!
Slowly, slowly seek your mission;
Naught in haste, or rash endeavor—
From the work yet ceasing never
Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!
Time's great branches cease from shaking;
Blind are ye, devoid of reason,
If its fruit ye would be taking
When its blossoms have but burst.
Let it ripen to its season,
Wind within its branches bluster—
Of itself the fruits 'twill muster
For whose juices ripe ye thirst."
Wild, excited crowds are scorning
In their guise the gray old singer,
Thus reward him for his warning,
Ape his songs in mockery:
"Shall we let the fellow linger
To disgrace us? Stone him, beat him,
With the scorn he merits treat him—
Let the world his folly see!"