Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/69

Rh The straining eye could scarce discern
 * The chapel of the good St. Mark.

And there, when bitter word or fare
 * The service of the youth repaid,

By stealth, before that holy shrine,
 * For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed.

The steed stamped at the castle gate,
 * The boar-hunt sounded on the hill;

Why stayed the Baron from the chase,
 * With looks so stern, and words so ill?

“Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn,
 * By scath of fire and strain of cord,

How ill they speed who give dead saints
 * The homage due their living lord!”

They bound him on the fearful rack,
 * When, through the dungeon’s vaulted dark,

He saw the light of shining robes,
 * And knew the face of good St. Mark.

Then sank the iron rack apart,
 * The cords released their cruel clasp,

The pincers, with their teeth of fire,
 * Fell broken from the torturer’s grasp.

And lo! before the Youth and Saint,
 * Barred door and wall of stone gave way;

And up from bondage and the night
 * They passed to freedom and the day!

O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;
 * O painter! true thy pencil’s art;

In tones of hope and prophecy,
 * Ye whisper to my listening heart!

Unheard no burdened heart’s appeal
 * Moans up to God’s inclining ear;

Unheeded by his tender eye,
 * Falls to the earth no sufferer’s tear.

For still the Lord alone is God!
 * The pomp and power of tyrant man

Are scattered at his lightest breath,
 * Like chaff before the winnower’s fan.

Not always shall the slave uplift
 * His heavy hands to Heaven in vain.

God’s angel, like the good St. Mark,
 * Comes shining down to break his chain!

O weary ones! ye may not see
 * Your helpers in their downward flight;

Nor hear the sound of silver wings
 * Slow beating through the hush of night!

But not the less gray Dothan shone,
 * With sunbright watchers bending low,

That Fear’s dim eye beheld alone
 * The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.

There are, who, like the Seer of old,
 * Can see the helpers God has sent,

And how life’s rugged mountain-side
 * Is white with many an angel tent!

They hear the heralds whom our Lord
 * Sends down his pathway to prepare;

And light, from others hidden, shines
 * On their high place of faith and prayer.

Let such, for earth’s despairing ones,
 * Hopeless, yet longing to be free,

Breathe once again the Prophet’s prayer:
 * “Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see!”

, lay your basket down,
 * And rest your weary hand,

And come and hear me sing a song
 * Of our old Ireland.

There was a lord of Galaway,
 * A mighty lord was he;

And he did wed a second wife,
 * A maid of low degree.

But he was old, and she was young,
 * And so, in evil spite,

She baked the black bread for his kin,
 * And fed her own with white.