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Rh

asketh homage. When his foot doth stand On earth's high places, he exacteth fear From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves The quick observance of an abject eye And cowering brow. His dignity he deems, Demands such aliment,—and he doth show Its evanescence, by the food he seeks To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this— He o'er his brother rules, with scourge and chain, Treading out Nature's charities, till life To madness tortur'd, or in misery crush'd, Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God. —But He, the Eternal Ruler, willeth not The slavery of the soul. His claim is love, A filial spirit, and a song of praise. It doth not please him, that his servants wear The livery of mourning. Peace is sown Along their pilgrim path,—and holy hopes Like birds of Paradise, do sweetly pour Melodious measures,—and a glorious faith Springs up o'er Jordan's wave. Say, is it meet For those who wear a Saviour's badge, to sigh In heathen heaviness, when earthly joys Quench their brief taper? or go shrinking down As to a dungeon, when the gate of Death Opes its low valve, to show the shining track Up to an angel's heritage of bliss?