Nor stripes, nor mockery,
Nor heaped-up agony,
Can wring from infinite Love one vengeful word:
While suffering Jesus stands
Amidst your pagan bands,
And ye laugh round, ye cruel hearts abhorred,
Hear the Lord's dying prayer for you:
'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!'
V.
Through the city doors
The shouting tumult pours,
And up the steep of Calvary they wind;
Golgotha! on thee
They plant the accursed tree;
No pity can the God of pity find.
Pierced were the hands that gave them bread.
And fast 'the beauteous feet that brought good tidings' bled!
[THE MAIL ROBBER.]
NUMBER TWO.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'KNICKERBOCKER.'
'Sir: At a prayer-meeting held in the house of a friend of mine, in Bleecker-street, one of our most respectable and talented financiers, and who was connected with myself in the late Post-office transaction, of which I have favored you with a development, I was thunder-struck at being shown the last number of your somewhat amusing but reckless Magazine.
'My friend is a subscriber of yours, and was of course greatly agitated and offended at the unexpected and astounding disclosure of the private affair which you have so unwarrantably dished up for the public. As was very natural, he charged me with the authorship of that communication; and as a man of conscientious principle and high moral sense, I was of course unable to deny it. By this time the other gentlemen, our colleagues in said Post-office business, one of whom is in Bangor, the other in Texas, have probably seen the article in question; and you will perceive that I am thus made, through your violation of the sanctity of correspondence, to stand with them in the odious light of an informer.