The Brazen Throat Of War.

Immortal Amarant, A Flower Which Once In Paradise, Fast By The Tree Of Life, Began To Bloom; But Soon For Man's Offence To Heaven Removed, Where First It Grew, There Grows, And Flowers Aloft, Shading The Fount Of Life, And Where The River Of Bliss Through Midst Of Heaven Rolls O'er Elysian Flowers Her Amber Stream: With These That Never Fade The Spirits Elect Bind Their Resplendent Locks.

The Saviour Who Flitted Before The Patriarchs Through The Fog Of The Old Dispensation, And Who Spake In Time Past To The Fathers By The Prophets, Articulate But Unseen, Is The Same Saviour Who, On The Open Heights Of The Gospel, And In The Abundant Daylight Of This New Testament, Speaks To Us. Still All Along It Is The Same Jesus, And That Bible Is From Beginning To End All Of It, The Word Of Christ.

And Pomp, And Feast, And Revelry, With Mask, And Antique Pageantry, Such Sights As Youthful Poets Dream On Summer Eves By Haunted Stream. Then To The Well-trod Stage Anon, If Jonson's Learned Sock Be On, Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child, Warble His Native Wood-notes Wild, And Ever, Against Eating Cares, Lap Me In Soft Lydian Airs, Married To Immortal Verse Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

Know Thy Birth! For Dost Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.

And If By Prayer Incessant I Could Hope To Change The Will Of Him Who All Things Can, I Would Not Cease To Weary Him With My Assiduous Cries.