Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/101

100 "Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp,   And wake its melody."

He thought upon his father's flock, Which long, in pastures green, He led, while flow'd, with silver sound, Clear rivulets between.

He thought of Bethlehem's star-lit skies, Beneath whose liquid rays He gazed upon the glorious arch, And sang its Maker's praise.

Then boldly o'er the sacred harp He pour'd, in thrilling strain, The prompting of a joyous heart, That knew nor care nor pain.

The monarch, leaning on his hand, Drank long the wondrous lay, And clouds were lifted from his brow, As when the sunbeams play.

The purple o'er his heaving breast, That throbb'd so wild, grew still, And Saul's clear eye glanced out, as when He did Jehovah's will.

O ye who feel the poison-fumes Of earth's fermenting care Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim What Heaven created fair,