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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,
I waited till he blessed mine eyes at morn,

Sitting in heaven.

Oh, foul idolater!
And darest thou still to breathe in Abraham's

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.

[A violent storm is heard rising.] Fire-worshiper.

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


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.


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:]

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


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.] The 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,

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.
The Voice.

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.


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.

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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

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