Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/50

50 Of beauty and of bliss. I thought their vow Was pour'd o'er Shechem's pillar to his ear Who in their mansions stay'd the astonish'd Sun, And night's pale queen, to gaze upon the work That heaven appointed him. That warrior joy'd Amid their convocation, when he heard The solemn vow from willing thousands break, "Jehovah is our King!—and him alone Shall Israel serve."— Who is yon hoary man With arms close folded on his reverend breast, Who seems in mournful thought while crowds exult? Know ye not him, who by his mother's prayer In infancy's sweet dream was consecrate?— Who 'neath the holy temple's lonely arch, When nought was waking save the solemn stars, Heard the Eternal speak, as sire to son?— Low his majestic head in grief declines, As if he ponder'd o'er the sever'd links Of lost Theocracy,—or sad revolved His nation's madness, and their God's offence. Anon, his mind prophetic mid the throngs Of unborn people roves,—the nameless ills Of power despotic,—till from his sunk eye Rolls the big, burning tear drop.— Who is he, With head more lofty than the countless crowd Who gaze upon him,—and with brow so bright In manly beauty?—The anointing oil Pour'd by the pale hand of that sorrowing seer, The crown that dazzles on those temples fair, The thundering shout that sweeps the vaulted sky. Best answer thee.—