"Wake, sackbut, psaltery, and harp--wake yet again!"--but nay, With calm, pale faces, sad and stern, they slowly turn away; The monarch's wrath, the furnace-flame, death, _death,_--they know it all-- Yet all these horrors powerless are those high hearts to appal!

Haste, haste, obsequious minions, bear the tidings to your lord!

Go, tell him there are some who dare to disobey his word; Men of the captive, Hebrew race, men high in place and power, Who scorn to bow their haughty necks at his command this hour!

"Go, bring them nigh!" the monarch cries, with fury in his face, "And set them here before my throne, these men of Hebrew race!

Now, Shadrach, Meshach, answer me, and thou, Abednego, They tell me ye refuse to bow and worship!--is it so?

"But hearken: if, what time ye hear once more the pealing swell Of sackbut, psaltery, and harp, ye bend in homage--well; If not, the fiery furnace shall your quivering flesh devour!

Then where's the G.o.d can rescue you from my avenging power?"

Then answered they, the captive three, in calm, respectful tone, While over each young, fearless brow faith's hallowed radiance shone, "Behold, our G.o.d is for us now--our G.o.d, O King! and He Is able to deliver us from the fierce flames and thee!

_"Yea, and He will deliver us!_--yet be it known to thee, O King, that could we truly know, that so it would not be, E'en then, we would not bow us down, or worship at the shrine Of this vain image thou hast reared, or any G.o.d of thine!"

"Now lead ye forth these haughty men!" the wrathful monarch cried, The while his face grew dark with rage and fury, so defied; "Yea, heat the furnace seven fold, and in the fiercest flame Blot out forever from the day each impious scorner's name!

"Ay, bind them well, ye mighty men, ye warriors stern and bold, And let your cords be very strong, your fetters manifold!

For neither they nor He they trust shall foil my kingly ire, Or save them from the wrathful flame of this devouring fire!

"Now cast them in!--but, oh!--my men!--they fade like morning mist!

Slain by the fierce, out-leaping flame no mortal may resist!

My warriors bold!--alas, alas!--I did not will it so!

Scathed by the fiery blast of death meant only for my foe!"

The king has risen to his feet!--what sight has fixed his gaze?

What mean the wonder in his face, the look of blank amaze?

And what the changed and falt'ring voice, as doubtfully he cries, "Tell me, ye counsellors of mine, ye ancient men and wise,

"Did we not cast, each firmly bound, into the fiercest flame, Three mortal men, for death designed, of Hebrew race and name?

Three?--_only three?_--or do I dream? What sight is this I view?"

And all his counsellors replied, "O monarch, it is true!"

"Yet now, amid the blinding flames, unbound, and calm, and free, Walking, with firm and steady step, the fiery waves, I see Not three, but four, and lo, the form of Him, the fourth I ween, Is like the Son of G.o.d, so calm, so gracious is His mien!"

Then to the furnace mouth drew near the monarch with his train-- The baffled monarch, bowed and quelled, feeling how poor and vain Were all his boasted pomp and power, how impotent and Week The arm so void of strength that hour his mad revenge to wreak.

"Ho, Shadrach, Meshach, hasten ye! and thou, Abednego, Servants of G.o.d Most High, come forth!" the monarch cried; and lo, Without a touch or tinge of fire, or smell of scorching flame, Forth, from the glowing heat intense, G.o.d's faithful servants came!

O, servants of a heathen king! all vainly would ye trace Or hue, or stain, or smell of fire, on any form or face!

Those comely locks of raven hair, smooth and unscorched, behold; Nor may ye find one trace of flame on any garment's fold!

Then cried the heathen king again--and, oh, how altered now The tone and utterance!--how changed the haughty lip and brow!-- "Now blessed be the G.o.d who hath His angel sent to free His servants who have trusted Him, and changed the King's decree;

"Who gave their bodies to the flame, rather than once to swerve From their allegiance to the G.o.d whom they delight to serve!

Therefore, let no one speak against this Glorious One and Just, Who saves, as none but He can save, the souls that in Him trust!"

Then calmly to their wonted toil, their worldly cares again, Unconscious of their deathless fame, went forth those dauntless men; Thrice blessed men! with whom, that day, their gracious Lord had walked, And lovingly, as friend with friend, of hallowed mysteries talked.

He walked with _them_ amid the flames! Oh, to the paths _we_ tread, The brighter, smoother, greener paths, with summer-flowers o'erspread, If but our weak hearts welcome Him, the same dear Lord will come, And walk with us through countless snares, till we arrive at home!

THE a.s.sEMBLY OF THE DEAD.

["Dr. Reid, a traveller through the highlands of Peru, is said to have found in the desert of Alcoama the dried remains of an a.s.semblage of human beings, five or six hundred in number, men, women, and children, seated in a semicircle as when alive, staring into the burning waste before them. It would seem that, knowing the Spanish invaders were at hand, they had come hither with a fixed intention to die. They sat immoveable in that dreary desert, dried like mummies by the hot air, still sitting as if in solemn council, while over that Areopagus silence broods everlastingly."]

With dull and lurid skies above, And burning wastes around, A lonely traveller journeyed on Through solitudes profound; No wandering bird's adventurous wing Paused o'er that cheerless waste, No tree across those dreary sands A welcome shadow cast.

With scorching, pestilential breath The desert-blast swept by, And with a fierce, relentless glare The sun looked from on high; Yet onward still, though worn with toil, The eager wand'rer pressed, While hope lit up his dauntless eye, And nerved his fainting breast.

Why paused he in his onward course?-- Why held his shuddering breath?-- Why gazed he with bewildered eye, As on the face of death?

Before him sat in stern array, All hushed as if in dread, Yet still, and pa.s.sionless, and calm, A concourse of the dead!

Across the burning waste they stared With glazed and stony eye, As if strange fear had fixed erewhile Their gaze on vacancy; And woe and dread on every brow In changeless lines were wrought,-- Sad traces of the anguish deep That filled their latest thought!

They seemed a race of other time, O'er whom the desert's blast, For many a long and weary age, In fiery wrath had pa.s.sed; Till, scathed and dry, each wasted form Its rigid aspect wore, Unchanged, though centuries had pa.s.sed The lonely desert o'er.

Was it the clash of foreign arms-- Was it the invader's tread,-- From which this simple-minded race In wildest terror fled,-- Choosing, amid the desert-sands, Scorched by the desert's breath, Rather than by the invaders' steel, To meet the stroke of death?

And there they died--a free-born race-- From their proud hills away, While round them in its lonely pride The far, free desert lay And there, unburied, still they sit, All statute like and cold, Free, e'en in death, though o'er their homes Oppression's tide has rolled!

BE STILL.

O throbbing heart, be still!

Canst thou not bear The heavy dash of Memory's troubled tide, Long sternly pent, but broken forth again, Sweeping all barriers ruthlessly aside, And leaving desolation in its train Where all was fair?

Fair, did I say?--Oh yes!-- I'd reared sweet flowers Of steadfast hope, and quiet, patient trust, Above the wreck and ruin of my years;-- Had won a plant of beauty from the dust, Fanned it with breath of prayer, and wet with tears Of loneliest hours!

O throbbing heart, be still!

That cherished flower-- Faith in thy G.o.d--last grown, yet first in worth, Will spring anew ere long--it is not dead, 'Tis only beaten to the breast of earth!

Let the storm rage--be calm--'twill lift its head Some stiller hour!

LITTLEWIT AND LOFTUS.

John Littlewit, friends, was a _credulous_ man.

In the good time long ago, Ere men had gone wild o'er the latter-day dream Of turning the world upside down with steam, Or of chaining the lightning down to a wire, And making it talk with its tongue of fire.

He was perfectly sure that the world stood still, And the sun and moon went round;-- He believed in fairies, and goblins ill, And witches that rode over vale and hill On wicked broom-sticks, studying still Mischief and craft profound.