Fire-worshiper.

We have children

One of them, sir, a daughter, who next week
Will all day long be going in and out,

Upon the watch for me. Spare, O spare her !
She's a good creature, and not strong.

Abraham.

Mine ears

Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy,
And to the coming of the Lord and God,
Who will this night condemn thee.

[Abraham pushes him out; and remains alone speaking.]

The Voice.

For if ever

God came at night-time upon the world,

'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds, The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,

Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,

Beneath the touching of the foot of God.

That was God's speaking in the heavens, that last,

An inward utterance coming by itself.

What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolater, whom thou abhorrest,
Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.

[A dead silence; and then a still small voice.] Abraham!

Abraham. Where art thou, Lord? and who is it that speaks So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn

And dare to face thy presence?

The Voice. Who but He

Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn?
I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham;

I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake;
But I am in the still small voice.

Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in? Abraham. Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth. The Voice.

Then didst thou what God himself forbore.

Have I, although he did deny me, borne
With his injuriousness these hundred years,

And couldst thou not endure him one sole night,
And such a night as this?

Abraham. Lord! I have sinned,

The Voice.

And will go forth, and if he be not dead,

Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies
Both to himself and me.

Behold and learn.

[The voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of
the tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire-worshiper,
who is calmly sleeping, with his head on the back of
a house-lamb.]

Abraham. O loving God! the lamb itself's his pillow,
And on his forehead is a balmy dew,

And in his sleep he smileth. I, mean time,
Poor and proud fool, with my presumptuous hands,
Not God's, was dealing judgments on his head,
Which God himself had cradled !-Oh, methinks
There's more in this than prophet yet hath known,
And Faith, some day, will all in love be shown.

L. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

1. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villagers with strange alarms.

2. Ah, what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the Death-Angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

3. I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

4. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts, sounds the Tartar gong.

5. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests, upon their teocallis,

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

6. The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout, that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage,
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

7. The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

8. Is it, O Man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies!

9. Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts.

10. The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against its brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !

11. Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

12. Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the Immortals,
The holy melodies of Love arise.

LI.-DRAFTED.

MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK.

1. My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;

No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie-as delicate, too, in his looks.

Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks;

He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

2. He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best ;

Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.

Too slender for over-much study-why, his master has made him to-day

Go out with his ball on the common-and you have drafted a child at his play!

3. "Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun,

And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?

Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,

"There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."

4. "Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day

When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay.

Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, A new morsel of fame

We'll lay on the candidate's altar "—and christened the child with his name.

5. Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm,

(Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,)

That my plowshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes,

That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

6. Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is no appeal,

But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?

Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one;

Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is done?

7. Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest,

With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast?

Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred?

My boy! Thank God for these tears—I was growing so bitter and hard!

*

8. Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,

Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight;

Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine,

And faith which has planted its banner where the Heavenly camp-fires shine.