DANIEL IN THE DEN OF LIONS. Uprose the conscious king: He bade no courtier bring His robe of state-no slaves his steps attend; To breathe his secret moan O'er the death-chamber of his martyr'd friend. Oh, bitter was the cry With which the king drew nigh "Hear me, O prophet, in Jehovah's name! Can His almighty power Avail in this dark hour, To quell the lion as it quench'd the flame? "What means that hollow sound, Low answering from the ground?- Is it the sated lions' stifled roar? Rejoice, O king, rejoice, It is a human voice; The voice which thou hadst thought to hear no more. From Babylon the proud Night roll'd her sable shroud;— But o'er the shouts that shook those towers of pride, Was heard one loud, wild cry It was the death-shriek when the guilty died! THOMAS DALE. Hymn of Praise. SING to the Lord! let harp, and lute, and voice, While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne; Rich as the purple of the coming morn: Sing the triumphant champions of their God, While burn their mounting feet along their skyward road. Sing to the Lord! for her in beauty's prime Sing to the Lord! it is not shed in vain, The blood of martyrs! from its freshening rain High springs the church, like some fount-shadowing palm; The nations crowd beneath its branching shade, Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made, And wrapt within its deep embosoming calm Earth sinks to slumber like the breezeless deep, And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and sleep. HYMN OF PRAISE. Sing to the Lord! No more the angels fly The sound of fierce licentious sacrifice. Headless in dust the awe of nations lies; Sing to the Lord! from damp prophetic cave In human tones are wailing victims heard ; Nor fathers by the reeking altar-stone Cowl their dark heads t' escape their children's dying groan. Sing to the Lord! No more the dead are laid To sleep the eternal sleep that knows no morn: While, on its own immortal pinions borne, Following the breaker of the imprisoning tomb, Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom. Sing to the Lord! The desert rocks break out, HYMN OF PRAISE. Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around, Earth's universal homage to the Lord; Lift up thy head, imperial Capitol, Proud on thy height to see the banner'd cross unroll. Sing to the Lord! when time itself shall cease, Enwrap this wide and restless world of man; And o'er all generations of mankind Eternal justice waves its winnowing fan; To vast infinity's remotest space, While ages run their everlasting race, Shall all the beatific hosts prolong, Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant song. MILMAN. |