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 God--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.
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