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BOYS OF THE BIBLE.

Enthroned in the clouds rolling up from the altar,
The giant-like god of the proud nation stood;
There flesh did not fail, nor scorching flame falter,
The still air was faint with the incense of blood.

And short prayers were muttered; and censers were swinging;
In gorgeous piles matted lay offerings of flowers;

Wild harps were complaining; gay minstrels were singing;
And a gong sounded forth the captive’s lone hours.

But now comes a mock, mournful sound of condoling;
And forth in his darkness, all haggard and wild,

His shaggy brow lowering, his glazed eyeballs rolling,
The strong man was guided as lead they a child.

Now higher the laugh and the rude jest are ringing,
As throng the gay revellers round the sad spot

Where the captive’s shrunk arms to the pillars are clinging;
And altar and wine-cup and dance are forgot.

His right arm is lifted: they laugh to behold it,
So wasted and yellow and bony and long:

His forehead is bowed; and the black locks which fold it
Seem stirring with agony nameless and strong.

His right arm is lifted; but feebly it quivers,—
That arm which has singly with multitudes striven:
Beneath the cold sweat-drops his mighty frame shivers;
And now his pale lips move in pleading to Heaven.

“God of my sires, my foes are thine:
Oh! bend unto my last faint cry,—
The strength, the strength that once was mine!—
Then let me die.

“T’ve been the terror of thy foes:
I’ve led thy people at thy call:
Now, sunk in shame, oppressed with woes,
Thus must I fall?

“Qh! give me back my strength again!
For one brief moment let me feel
That lava flood in every vein,
Those nerves of steel.

“ My strength, my strength, great God of Heaven!
In agony I make my cry,—
One triumph o’er my foes be given!—
Then let me die.”