wax hot against his servant; lo, I have sinned; lo, I have sinned; forgive me, I pray thee."

13. And Abraham arose, and went forth into the wilderness, and sought diligently for the man, and found him, and returned with him to the tent; and when he had entreated him kindly, he sent him away on the morrow with gifts.

14. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, "For this thy sin shall thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a strange land;

15. "But for thy repentance will I deliver them; and they shall come forth with power, and with gladness of heart, and with much substance."

XLIX.-ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WOR

SHIPER.

LEIGH HUNT.

SCENE. The inside of a tent, in which the patriarch Abraham, and a Persian traveler, a Fire-worshiper, are sitting awhile after supper.

Fire-worshiper. [Aside.] What have I said or done, that by degrees

Mine host hath changed his gracious countenance,

Until he stareth on me, as in wrath!

Have I twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise love?
Or sit I thus too long, and he himself

Would fain be sleeping? I will speak to that.
(Aloud.) Impute it, O my great and gracious lord,
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly,

If mine old eyelids droop against their will,
And I become as one that hath no sense

Ev'n to the milk and honey of thy words.—

With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help,
My limbs would creep to bed.

Abraham. [Angrily quitting his seat.] In this tent, never.
Thou art a thankless and an impious man.
Fire-worshiper. [Rising in astonishment.] A thankless and
an impious man! Oh, sir,

My thanks have all but worshiped thee.

Abraham.

And whom

Forgotten? Like the fawning dog I feed.
From the foot-washing to the meal, and now
To this thy crammed and dog-like wish for bed,
I've noted thee; and never hast thou breathed
One syllable of prayer or praise or thanks,

To the great God who made and feedeth all.
Fire-worshiper. Oh, sir, the God I worship is the Fire,
The god of gods; and seeing him not here,
In any symbol, or on any shrine,

Abraham.

I waited till he blessed mine eyes at morn,
Sitting in heaven.

Oh, foul idolater!

And darest thou still to breathe in Abraham's

tent?

Forth with thee, wretch: for he that made thy god,
And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven,
The invisible and only dreadful God,

Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm,
And try thee in thy foolish god, the fire,
Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of.
Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds,

And get thee forth, and wait him.

Fire-worshiper.

[A violent storm is heard rising.]
What! unhoused!

And on a night like this! me, poor old man,
A hundred years of age!

Abraham. [Urging him away.]

Not reverencing

The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence.

Fire-worshiper. Thou hadst a father!-think of his gray

hairs,

Houseless, and cuffed by such a storm as this.
Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not him.
Fire-worshiper. I have a wife, as aged as myself,

And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,
No, not a day; she is so used to me;
So propped up by her other feeble self.

I pray thee, strike us not both down.

Abraham. [Still urging him.]

God made

Husband and wife, and must be owned of them,
Else he must needs disown them.

Fire-worshiper.

Abraham.

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.

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!"