He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed? 
    I see a wondrous radiance in his face,
  As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!

  Can he have bought it * * *?  No! they stride apace
    Toward the blood-stained spot—­it is to be. 
  The martyr’s palm his confident brow shall grace.

  “Weep not!  No tears of pity flowed from me
    When to the cross the tender youth I bound—­
  My heart of stone ignored his misery.”

  So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found
    The path of expiation, firmly trod,
  Cain’s brand upon him, all the dreadful round.

  “Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God,
    Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end? 
  I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,

  Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend. 
    ’Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * *
  Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!”

  So when the ruffian captors seized him there
    And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled;
  ’Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.

  And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild,
    And he was lifted ’mid the throng on high,
  White peace came down upon his soul defiled.

  In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die
    That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still—­
  His suffering was one long atoning cry.

  The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will
    He yet found strength his torment dire to face. 
  The third day’s sun sank down behind the hill;

  And as the glory of its parting rays
    He strove with glazing eye once more to see,
  With his last breath he cried in joyful praise

  “My God, my God, Thou hast not forsaken me!”

* * * * *

  THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833)

  Once a strange old man went singing,
    Words of scornful admonition
  To the streets and markets bringing: 
      “In the wilds a voice am I! 
    Slowly, slowly seek your mission;
  Naught in haste, or rash endeavor—­
  From the work yet ceasing never
      Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!

  Time’s great branches cease from shaking;
    Blind are ye, devoid of reason,
  If its fruit ye would be taking
      When its blossoms have but burst. 
    Let it ripen to its season,
  Wind within its branches bluster—­
  Of itself the fruits ’twill muster
      For whose juices ripe ye thirst.”

  Wild, excited crowds are scorning
    In their guise the gray old singer,
  Thus reward him for his warning,
      Ape his songs in mockery: 
    “Shall we let the fellow linger
  To disgrace us?  Stone him, beat him,
  With the scorn he merits treat him—­
      Let the world his folly see!”