From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air! FORGIVENESS. My heart was heavy, for its trust had been And cold hands folded over a still heart, Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave! BARCLAY OF URY.2 Up the streets of Aberdeen, Flouted him the drunken churl, Prompt to please her master; Yet, with calm and stately mien, And, to all he saw and heard Came a troop with broadswords swinging, But from out the thickening crowd And the old man at his side Scarred and sunburned darkly; Who with ready weapon bare, Cried aloud: "God save us! With the brave Gustavus?" "Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; thee: up I pray "Put it Passive to his holy will, Trust I in my Master still, Even though he slay me." "Pledges of thy love and faith, Marvelled much that henchman bold, "Woe's the day," he sadly said, 66 Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child, "Speak the word, and, master mine, To these boyish prancers!" "Marvel not, mine ancient friend, "Is the sinful servant more "Give me joy that in his name "Happier I, with loss of all, With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads to meet me. "When each good wife, o'er and o'er, "Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, But the Lord his own rewards, 66 Warm and fresh and living. Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light Up the blackness streaking; Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest For the full day-breaking!" So the Laird of Ury said, Turning slow his horse's head Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron grates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word Preach of Christ arisen! Not in vain, Confessor old, Of thy day of trial; Every age on him, who strays Happy he whose inward ear Angel comfortings can hear, O'er the rabble's laughter; Knowing this, that never yet In the world's wide fallow; Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, From the Future borrow; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, WHAT THE VOICE SAID. Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, "Lord!" I cried in sudden ire, "From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire! "Love is lost, and Faith is dying; "Here the dying wail of Famine, |