BY 
 
 FRANCIS J. MURPHY, M. D., 
 
 Of Alexandeia, Va. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/linesOOmurp 
 
^ \v 
 
 REMOTE STORAGE 
 
 TO MY 
 
 Esteemed Patients and Good Friends 
 IN Alexandria, Va., 
 
 AND IN OTHER PARTS OF THE COUNTRY, 
 
 o whom I am so largely indebted for cheering 
 words of confidence and sympathy amid the 
 cares of a long and active professional life, and 
 for kindly ministrations in times of trial, the 
 following fugitive lines are respectfully and 
 alfectionately dedicated. 
 
 F. J. Murphy. 
 
 Alexandria, Va., 1877. 
 
 
 

 
THE DEATH-BED OF NAPOLEON 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale, Valley of Virginia. 
 
 “ A dreadful tempest arose on the 4th of May, 1821, which preceded 
 the day that was to close the mortal existence of this extraordinary 
 man. A willow, which had been the exile’s favorite, and under which 
 he had often enjoyed the fresh breeze, was torn up by the hurricane, 
 and almost all the trees about Longwood shared the same fate. 
 
 “ The 5th of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon’s passing 
 spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than that of the 
 elements around. The words ‘ tate d’armie,’ the last which escaped 
 his lips, indicated that his thoughts were watching the current of a 
 heady fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening Napoleon, 
 after a struggle which indicated the original strength of his consti- 
 tution, breathed his last .” — Scotfs Life of Napoleon. 
 
 I ARK children of the storm, why gather ye, 
 
 In maddened crowds, around Helena’s isle. 
 With giant footsteps tearing up the sea. 
 
 And shrieks that rend the air for many a mile ? 
 A comrade dies ; we come his dirge to sing, 
 
 And loud and wild we’ll make the welkin ring. 
 
4 
 
 Then reeling to and fro the whirlwind waved 
 The torn-up willow o’er his ally’s home, 
 
 And frenzied lightnings now his name engraved 
 In hissing letters on the ocean’s foam. 
 
 ’Tis he, thine idol, France, thy boast, thy pride 
 Thy brazen god, the soldier deified. 
 
 ’Tis he, and yet is heard no drum’s deep roll ; 
 
 No dying hymns from booming camion rise. 
 No en avant ” now hurries on Ms soul. 
 
 No banners proudly wave ; and yet he dies ; 
 Methought that forms all bright to look upon. 
 Did always gather round the dying sun. 
 
 Arouse him ! Cry out forward cuirassiers ; 
 
 And flash a blood-stained falchion o’er his eyes. 
 Cry Austerlitz ! On with thy columns, France ! 
 
 That, that alone, will surely make him rise. 
 
 He must not die. Angel of death pass on ! 
 
 Who speaks of death ? This is Napoleon. 
 

5 
 
 And yet what means that deep and death-like sleep ? 
 
 What means the cold drops on that marble brow ? 
 That pallid cheek, that cold and ashy lip ? 
 
 Incarnate maelstrom art thou conquered now ? 
 Gone is the lightning of that falcon eye, 
 
 Alas ! must he like meaner mortals die ? 
 
 He wakes ! a sound ! ’tis but the wild sea wind 
 Falls with deep accent on his dying ear ; 
 
 He feebly turns, and proudly waves his hand. 
 
 That sound to him is Vive L’Empereur,” 
 
 Now sinks again into that fatal trance 
 
 And sweetly smiles. He dreams of La belle France. 
 
 The storm without now rages wild and high. 
 
 The casements tremble in the rising blast ; 
 
 He starts again, and shrieks out — Bravo Guards ! 
 
 Ho there my gallant huhlans, stand you fast ! 
 Then shrinks aghast and mutters, art thou come ? 
 (The shade of D’Enghien stalks into the room.) 
 
6 
 
 
 Thou art the conscript now : ’tis Death commands, 
 Into the ranks, fall in. He hears the sound 
 And gathering the drapery in his icy hands, 
 
 He folds it like a martial cloak around ; 
 
 Then coldly turning from the world away 
 He murmers, oh how faintly, tate d’armie.” 
 
 Ho stately priest ! with surplice, cope, and stole ! 
 
 Why wave thy censer ? ’Tis no hallowed spot. 
 Why chant the De Profundis for his soul ? 
 
 The Miserecorde, alas ! he knew it not. 
 
 No ! call the children of the tempest in ; 
 
 ’Tis they should mourn, they are his kith and kin. 
 
 Aye, let the Siroc come from Afric’s sands. 
 
 And o’er her brother shriek a piercing vive. 
 
 Let Kapine enter with blood-reeking hands. 
 
 And kneeling by his dying patron grieve ; 
 
 ’Tis Etna’s torch should light his chamber’s gloom. 
 The Alpine avalanche should be his tomb. 
 
7 
 
 THE PRAIRIE STREAM. 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale. 
 
 ^Low on, flow on, bright Summer’s stream. 
 And sing as you dance along. 
 
 For a change will soon come o’er thy dream 
 And hush thy halcyon song — 
 
 Flow merrily on in the bright sunlight. 
 
 Like a falchion gleaming broad and bright, 
 
 And kiss the wild flower’s tiny crest 
 As o’er thy waves they bow. 
 
 And take the rose unto thy breast 
 And cool her burning brow. 
 
 And the pallid water lily bathe 
 
 In the flowing font of thy crystal wave ; 
 
8 
 
 And the welcome wave of the wild bird’s wing 
 Will greet thee on thy way 
 As on thy shadowy banks they sing 
 Throughout the livelong day, 
 
 And wailing the weeping willow tree 
 Will wave her tresses over thee ; 
 
 For nevermore by thy side 
 Will the herded bison rove, 
 
 Or the warrior-hunter woo his bride 
 With his Indian tale of love ; 
 
 Never again will thy waters blue 
 
 Bear the painted chief in his carved canoe. 
 
 For westward rolls the empire star 
 O’er prairie, glade, and glen. 
 
 And dim grows the light of the council-fire 
 As the pale-face host moves on ; 
 
 Little they reck of the wigwam’s fate. 
 
 Or the Indian’s love, or the Indian’s hate. 
 
r?', 
 
 
9 
 
 O’Qr pathless pampas — on, still on 
 
 Moves the might of the coming one — 
 
 On o’er Sierra’s rocky walls 
 To the sea of the setting sun ; 
 
 And the red man’s might and the red man’s right 
 Will pale before that star’s cold light. 
 
10 
 
 LINES ACCOMPANYING A BOUQUET. 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale, Valley of Virginia. 
 
 Receive from me this offering, 
 
 A group of angel flowers ; 
 
 For every one to thee will bring 
 A symbol of thy being’s spring, 
 Its budding, fading hours. 
 
 See the lovely rose and lily white, 
 
 The children of the sun ! 
 
 They bloom to tell of life’s sunlight. 
 They droop and tell that joys so bright 
 Will leave thee one by one. 
 
11 
 
 The blushing rose as queen is crowned 
 Of this gallant retinue. 
 
 And when together the wreath I bound, 
 Twining a jasmine round and round, 
 
 I whispered ’twas for you. 
 
 Then all breathed forth a rich perfume 
 And shown with deeper dye. 
 
 Brighter became the dahlia’s bloom 
 And proudly she waved her crimson plume 
 When she learned her destiny. 
 
 And the lily grew more dazzling fair 
 When I named thy sunny brow. 
 Thought she. I’ll find a rival there, 
 
 And mayhap she breathed a little prayer 
 That she might conquer now. 
 

 
 ■I i 
 
 
 'i 
 
 '■m 
 
 
 [> 
 
 
 1 
 
 . i 
 
 
And glad was the moss-rose too, I ween, 
 
 To join your fair bouquet. 
 
 For she raised her head from her vail of green 
 And blushed with joy like a fair young queen 
 That was crowned but yesterday. 
 
 Then take this fairy coronal, 
 
 ’Twill fade, alas ! (I sigh) ; 
 
 But is not this the fate of all 
 Glory and power, and beauty’s thrall ? 
 Shall they not also die ? 
 
 Look on that brave old cornel tree. 
 
 Our fathers sought his shade ; 
 
 Tho’ reared in the old old world was he, 
 Tho’ he counts his age by the century. 
 Still that old tree must fade. 
 
13 
 
 Then, what if the rose does wait its doom, 
 And the gay anemone ; 
 
 And what if the dahlia lose her bloom. 
 The mignonette her deep perfume. 
 
 And the lily her purity. 
 
 ’Tis thus with all. The despot’s throne 
 With the blood of millions bought. 
 Art’s priceless gems, fame’s laurel crown. 
 And empires with their old renown 
 All, all, must pass to naught. 
 
 The voice of time whispers decay 
 On mount and lonely shore. 
 But even time shall lose his sway. 
 The world itself will pass away. 
 And Time shall be no more.” 
 
 
u 
 
 LET US BURY THE PAST. 
 
 % 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale. 
 
 ET US bury the past ; let us dig the grave deep, 
 
 Deep, deep in the soul let the sepulchre be. 
 
 That no voice shall e’er reach the dark memories that sleep. 
 That no throb of the heart shall again set them free. 
 Let us raise no green mound to mark out the spot ; 
 
 Let them sleep on forever, awaken them not. 
 
 Aye bury the past with its wild dreams of love. 
 
 Of ambition, of hate, the lights and the shades. 
 The reign of the serpent, and the reign of the dove. 
 Its green sunny slopes, and its dim everglades. 
 Let oblivion’s dark lava wave over them roll ; 
 
 Let us bury them all, aye both body and soul. 
 
16 
 
 Troubled dreams of the past, pallid spectres we part, 
 
 Let the winding sheet over thy ruins be spread. 
 
 Ye have clasped your cold fingers too long round my heart. 
 To the tomb with ye all — sound a dirge for the dead. 
 Then toll the bell deeply — dark cortege move on. 
 
 With the hopes and the fears of the years that have flown. 
 
 Nay toll no deep knell lest the echo be loud. 
 
 And rouse up some phantom in memory’s train. 
 
 Who may raise up the curtain and roll back the shroud, 
 And re-open that book at some dark page of pain. 
 
 In silence move on, to the heart’s donjon keep. 
 
 There bury the past, and oh ! dig the grave deep. 
 
 #**#*#** 
 
 Nay, let me dream that dream again 
 Once more before I die. 
 
 That dream of the world of long ago. 
 
 Of that Eden life gone by. 
 
 Of that bright, bright world in the long ago. 
 
 In that Eden life gone by. 
 
16 
 
 I would roam again in the pale moonlight 
 Through the maze of that wizard glade, 
 And review the pictures of the past 
 Ere from my heart they fade ; 
 
 That pictured poem of the buried past 
 Ere from my heart ’twill fade. 
 
 Oh ! where is the wreath that bound the brow 
 Of that world so glad and gay ? 
 
 Withered and dead is that garland now, 
 
 That world hath passed away ; 
 
 Aye dead and buried is that chaplet now. 
 
 That world has passed away. 
 
 That sun hath set in the ever night. 
 Has sunk in a lurid glare. 
 
 An iceberg now floats o’er that heart. 
 And all is winter there ; 
 
 Neath clouds of woe dark icebergs roll. 
 And all is winter there. 
 
17 
 
 Let me see in a dream, in some wild dream, 
 When the fever rages high. 
 
 That dimpled smile of the sunlit past 
 Once more before I die ; 
 
 And on waves of sleep float near that home 
 Once more before I die. 
 
 0 for the sound of that seraph voice. 
 Sweet as the south wind’s sigh ! 
 
 0 for the touch of that gentle hand 
 Once more before I die ! 
 
 For the farewell clasp of that fairy hand 
 Once more before I die ! 
 
 Come back my pale-faced darling, 
 0 come once more to me ; 
 
 Will we meet no more forever 
 This side of that silent sea ; 
 
 Meet again — Oh ! never, never. 
 This side of that silent sea ? 
 
18 
 
 Lo, I hear thy spirit whisper 
 
 We will meet by that mystic shore 
 In the groves of the far hereafter, 
 
 In the land of the evermore, 
 
 In the dim unknown hereafter 
 In the land of the evermore. 
 
 1874. 
 
19 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale, Valley of Virginia. 
 
 ND art thou coming, Winter, 
 
 With wild and wayward might 
 To cast o’er all earth’s lovely things 
 Thy pale and withering blight? 
 
 Aye, here he comes o’er the dreary wold ; 
 
 I feel his breath — ah me ! how cold ! 
 
 He wears the same wild haggard brow 
 Which he wore when in his prime. 
 
 And he singeth the same shrill wailing song 
 That he sang in the olden time. 
 
 The same hoarse moan o’er field and fell. 
 Ah ! ah ! old Winter I know thee well. 
 
Thou art coming, coming, Winter 
 To tell the same sad tale 
 Of bright things passing from the earth 
 With sigh and moan and wail ; 
 
 Of fair flowers fading one by one 
 As thy sable banners cloud the sun ; 
 
 A chant from the polar choir peals out 
 All wild and full of woe. 
 
 As march thy fierce escadrons forth 
 From thy battlements of snow ; 
 
 A requiem is it o’er pale Summer’s form 
 Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm ? 
 
 Thy cohorts with their night-black plumes 
 Shut out the bright blue sky. 
 
 All nature mourns the fast decay 
 Of Summer’s blazonry ; 
 
 Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild. 
 She sorrows o’er her dying child. 
 
The lips of the prattling brook are sealed, 
 And the singing birds have flown 
 Away, away, to some bright land 
 To thee and thine unknown. 
 
 And even man in his pride grows pale 
 And trembles at thy flerce assail. 
 
 Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass 
 With a fltful, wild halloo. 
 
 And the hailstones drum on the hollow trees 
 With a mournful rat-tat-too ; 
 
 Oh spare, in thy fearful marches spare. 
 
 The fruitful fleld and the gay parterre ! 
 
 But thy flerce battalions flling on 
 Nor heed nor hear my cry. 
 
 And a dirge for the fair and flowery fleld 
 Swells through the darkened sky. 
 
 And showers of icy javelins fall, 
 
 The only answer to my call. 
 
But, ho ! a flag of truce hangs out 
 In spotless folds on high, 
 
 And the snowflakes wheel in light platoons 
 Through the dark and troubled sky. 
 
 And now like the ghosts of nnurdered flowers 
 They seek the earth in countless showers ; 
 They fall on the mountain’s giddy height. 
 
 In the dark ravine they fall. 
 
 And o’er the distant city’s domes 
 They spread their radiant pall ; 
 
 That beauteous snow like a winding sheet 
 Is spread o’er forest and fleld and street. 
 
 On the storied monument it falls. 
 
 Blots out the studied verse. 
 
 And covers, all the high and low. 
 
 With one unsculptured hearse ; 
 Methinks it lies more lightly on 
 
 The grave of the broken-hearted one. 
 
23 
 
 The folds of a Paynim turban now 
 The village spire doth hide, 
 
 And see ! it dresses the old yew tree 
 As gay as a bonny bride ; 
 
 With an ermine cloak it wraps the plain, 
 
 And shuts the blast from the growing grain. 
 
 Come on ! come on ! old Winter, 
 Spring wears a winning smile. 
 
 And Summer has a lulling art 
 To charm and to beguile. 
 
 And Autumn is in beauty drest ; 
 
 But thy rough form I love the best ! 
 Thou tellest me of long ago. 
 
 Of childhood’s spotless day. 
 
 Of boyhood’s freaks by th’ old fireside, 
 Of friends now passed away ; 
 
 Albeit too thy accents drear 
 
 Tell that life’s winter draweth near. 
 
THE FLORAL RESURRECTION. 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale. 
 
 From Knickerbocker, May, 1844, No. 5. 
 
 ELCOME, sweet flowers ! bright Summer’s poetry ! 
 
 I hail your fragrant coming, and again 
 With joy I read your brilliant imagery. 
 
 Written once more in nature’s holiest strain, 
 The lowly cottage, and the princely hall. 
 
 Your advent cherish — ye are all to all. 
 
 Rising in glory from their winter graves. 
 
 The painted tulip comes, and daisy fair. 
 
 And o’er the brook the fond narcissus waves 
 Her golden cup — her image loving there. 
 Those early flowers their glowing tributes bring 
 To weave a chaplet round the brow of Spring. 
 

 V > • 
 
^5 
 
 The sultry sun of June looks down, and then 
 Comes forth the lovely rose, the garden’s pride. 
 
 To herald Summer over glade and glen. 
 
 O’er wild and waste, o’er mead and mountain side ; 
 Proudly she rears her crest on high, the vain 
 And gay pursuivant of a brilliant train. 
 
 And now, bright dahlia, heartless one appear ! 
 
 Thy time has come to join the festival ; 
 
 Come, Peru’s daughter, belle of night ! dost fear 
 To wear in glorious day thy coronal? 
 
 And thou, pale exile from the Holy Land, 
 Imperial lily ! come and join the band ! 
 
 See, o’er the lattice creeps the eglantine. 
 
 And there the jasmine clambers up the wall 
 To twine her wreaths with Flora’s blushing queen. 
 Rejoicing all in Summer’s carnival ; 
 
 How kind of them to deck the shepherd’s cot. 
 
 And with their presence cheer his humble lot ! 
 
26 
 
 I love ye flowers ; your odors ever bring 
 Back visions of the past ! I love ye well ; 
 From the lone primrose, nursling of the Spring, 
 Unto the beauteous aster. Autumn’s belle. 
 
 Or reared on verdant flelds, or ruined wall, 
 
 I love ye all, sweet flowers ! I love ye all ! 
 
I Kiii^rV'f t' 
 
^7 
 
 THE INFANT’S BURIAL 
 
 By THE Shepherd of Sharondale, Valley of Virginia. 
 
 Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 
 
 UST unto dust ! Sweet child, 
 
 Was that dark sentence ever meant for thee ? 
 
 For that bright form, that tablet undefiled. 
 
 Creation’s mystery? 
 
 No, no ! it could not be, for God is just ! 
 
 That beauteous brow ! oh ! who could call that dust ? 
 
 And yet methought I heard 
 Those words slow uttered o’er thy tiny grave, 
 
 As though that Eden calm had e’er been stirred 
 By passion’s stormy wave. 
 
 It should have been : Angels and angel meet ; 
 Seraphs on high a sister seraph greet ! 
 
^8 
 
 Earth unto earth ! ’Tis well 
 That sordid earth should pass to earth again, 
 
 In those dark fanes where truth has ceased to dwell. 
 
 Why should the shrine remain ? 
 
 Deep in the dust let all such pass away. 
 
 Why should they not ? Clay mingles but with clay ; 
 
 Such is dark manhood’s prime, 
 
 From whose high nature all of Heaven has passed. 
 Whose once pure mould is deeply dyed with crime. 
 Bound down with fetters fast ; 
 
 Gone, gone is all of holiness and worth. 
 
 And what remains is naught indeed but earth. 
 
 Ashes to ashes ! No ! 
 
 Let it be thus with those whom age has chilled. 
 Whose life is but the dying ember’s glow — 
 There let it be fulfilled ! 
 
 Say, When the altar fires but dimly burn. 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust return ! ” 
 
 And with that aged band. 
 

29 
 
 The blackened craters of whose hearts are charred 
 By scathed hopes and hate’s undying brand, 
 
 Let not this fate be marred ; 
 
 Ope wide thy portals, grave ! death pass them down ! 
 For these, and such as these, are all thine own. 
 
 But oh, my beauteous one ! 
 
 This gloomy path should not by thee be trod ; 
 
 The grave, the worm, should not by thee be known — 
 Go thou direct to God ! 
 
 Thy passport white at Heaven’s gate unroll, 
 
 (No dark hand-writing e’er hath soiled that scroll.) 
 
 ’Twas thus the Saviour spoke : 
 
 Those little children, suffer them to come. 
 
 The mandate thou didst hear ; the fetters broke 
 Which kept thee from thy home. 
 
 A while life’s threshold thou didst press with glee. 
 Then turned away ; this life was not for thee ! 
 
 From the Knickerbocker, May, 1844, No. 5. 
 
so 
 
 THE RIVER WAVE. 
 
 By the Shepherd of Sharondale, Valley of Virginia. 
 
 From Knickerbocker, April, 1846, No. 4. 
 
 WHITHER away, my bonny blue wave, 
 
 0 whither away so free ? 
 
 I am going to hear how the wild billows rave 
 Afar on the deep, deep sea ! 
 
 Keturn, gentle wavelet, before thou art lost 
 In that bitter and briny foam. 
 
 For the ocean is dark and stormy and cold. 
 And not like thine own sunny home ! 
 
 Remember the rocks whence you leaped with wild glee. 
 Your birthplace you cannot forget. 
 
 And think of the time when through the dark woods 
 You roamed with one sweet rivulet ! 
 
SI 
 
 0 think of the lilies that stooped from the banks 
 To play with your beautiful crest, 
 
 And think of the roses that left their fair homes 
 To float on your still, spotless breast ! 
 
 0 well I remember the place of my birth. 
 
 The bubbling hillside fountain. 
 
 And how blithely I gambolled from rock to rock 
 Down the side of the lofty mountain ; 
 
 But I am tired of the woods with their dark, shady 
 bowers, 
 
 I am tired of the lonely rill. 
 
 And I’ve flirted my fill with the beautiful flowers. 
 Though dearly I love them still. 
 
 I feel now my strength, I long to be free. 
 
 The storm and the tempest to brave. 
 
 To mingle my foam with the foam of the sea. 
 And grow to a vast mountain wave ! 
 
Then I’ll rise up on high and I’ll kiss the blue sky, 
 And play with the black thunder-cloiid, 
 
 And a wreath of white foam I will wear like a crown, 
 And I’ll sing with the tempest aloud ! 
 
 Farewell then bright wave ! wayward one, go thy way ! 
 
 Eoll on ! but 0 think of the cost ! 
 
 Full soon you wdll moan, and for many a day. 
 
 O’er peace and o’er purity lost ! 
 
 When the bright little fishes of silver and gold 
 Shall desert your dark poisonous bourne. 
 
 And strange, sullen monsters your breast shall enfold, 
 Not then would we have you return ! 
 
 A symbol of man ! He breaks through the ties 
 That environ the freshness of youth. 
 
 And heeds not the voice that would fain win him back 
 To his loved ones, his home, and his truth ! 
 
S3 
 
 He feels then his strength, and he longs to be free, 
 The storm and the tempest to brave. 
 
 To mingle his might in ambition’s wild sea. 
 
 And grow to a vast mountain wave ! 
 
 And little he recks for his purity lost, 
 
 His soul he would risk for a name. 
 
 To wear on his brow that wreath of light foam. 
 
 The perishing garland of fame ! 
 
 When those virtues, more precious than silver or gold. 
 In his bosom shall cease to sojourn. 
 
 And strange monster passions his breast shall enfold, 
 Not then would we have him return ! 
 
SJi. 
 
 THE COMING OF THE MESSIAH. 
 
 By Dr. F. J. Murphy. 
 
 What a lesson of humility is taught at the first dawn of the Christian 
 Era in the coming of the Messiah. We behold “the desired of all nations ” 
 coming, not as was vainly expected by the Jewish people, with all the 
 pageantry of an earthly sovereign, but literally as an outcast. We do not 
 find his Virgin Mother chosen from the family of Herod, or from among 
 the peerless daughters of their unrelenting conqueror, imperial Augustus ; 
 from the proud court of Jerusalem, or from that of the then queen of 
 nations, mighty Rome ; but an humble maiden from the hated land of 
 Galilee, from amongst “ a people that sat in darkness and in the shadow 
 of death.” No public rejoicings mark the hour which gives birth to the 
 long “ promised of the covenant no banners wave their gorgeous folds 
 on high, blazoned with the insignia of pagan Rome ; no crowds of plumed 
 soldiery, with “ warrior garments rolled in blood,” assemble to greet his 
 coming. No : “ He came unto his own, but his own received him not.” 
 We find him drawing his first breath in a rude stable, “because there 
 was no room for them in the inn.” 
 
 S|o blazoned eagles wave their golden wings, 
 
 While through the vaulted sky the clarion rings 
 Out tones of joy, as joyous news it brings. 
 
 The birth of Israel’s King ? 
 
35 
 
 Do spicy clouds of incense fill the air, 
 
 As scribe and rabbin to the spot repair, 
 Crying, behold ! the Promised One is here, 
 Loud, long, hosannas sing ? 
 
 Do Juda’s sons in marshalled columns shine. 
 
 Do Herod’s cohorts form a glittering line. 
 
 To welcome to the world the most divine, 
 
 A heavenly jubilee ? 
 
 Issues the Jewish prince his stern command 
 To spread the tidings glad throughout the land. 
 From tribe to tribe, from famed Judea’s strand 
 To Gentile Galilee ? 
 
 And where is he, the new-born Potentate ; 
 
 In Israel’s palace lies he robed in state. 
 
 While plumed centurions guard the lofty gate 
 In glittering panoply ? 
 
.'T« ; 
 
 7 
 
 
S6 
 
 Do purpled curtains throw a regal dye 
 Through the proud chamber like a sunset sky', 
 While o’er the sacred couch is reared on high 
 The royal canopy ? 
 
 Is the “ Light unto the Gentile world ” seen 
 Coming with monarch’s pomp and lofty mien, 
 And heralds gay with gold and silver sheen 
 Unto his heritage. 
 
 To wear Judea’s diadem of gold, 
 
 The starry crown of David, and to hold 
 O’er Judea’s land the sceptre, as foretold 
 By the inspired sage ? 
 
 Do Syi'ia’s daughters send rich tones on high 
 Of adoration, to the clear blue sky. 
 
 While harp and timbrel join to glorify 
 The long expected One ? 
 
37 
 
 Do lofty arcades echo back the name. 
 
 The holy hallowed name of him who came 
 On earth, redemption’s tidings to proclaim, 
 The Virgin Mother’s Son ? 
 
 The Virgin Mother ? Ha ! some high born one ; 
 Heiress is she to proud Judea’s throne, 
 
 Who answered to the angel’s thrilling tone, 
 
 The Lord’s handmaid behold ? ” 
 
 What peerless princess claims the honor bright 
 Of giving birth unto this king of light. 
 
 Begotten before all ages, and delight 
 Of ages yet untold ? 
 
 No ! he who reigned when earth was without form,” 
 Who rides the whirlwind and directs the storm,” 
 Comes unto man an outcast — man the worm — 
 
 In Israel’s chosen spot. 
 
S8 
 
 No ermiued robe he wears, nor jewelled zone, 
 Nor serried army leads to claim his throne ; 
 For, though foretold to come unto his own. 
 His own received him not.” 
 
 No banners show imperial Caesar’s sign. 
 
 No loud-mouthed trump proclaims to Palestine 
 The coming of the promised all-divine, 
 
 Of spotless virgin born. 
 
 No glittering censers breathe a fragrant cloud 
 On Judea’s magi, as they call aloud 
 On all around, a dense and joyous crowd. 
 
 Their temple to adorn. 
 
 No warrior men, with brightly gleaming glaive, 
 Throng rank on rank along the marbled pave. 
 To greet his coming, though he comes to save 
 The lofty and the low. 
 
39 
 
 No gold, or pearls, or gems, in bright array. 
 Bedeck that crown which fadeth not away.” 
 That crown of glory, which shall shine for aye, 
 With bright unearthly glow. 
 
 No choral anthem lulls the babe to rest 
 In bed of state, with Tyrian purple dressed. 
 Where o’er him weeps the Virgin, ever blessed. 
 According to the word. 
 
 No princess fair, no high-born one is she. 
 
 With line of proud and ancient pedigree ; 
 
 But lowly maiden, heralded to be 
 The mother of the Lord. 
 
 Yes ! God, an outcast, and despised of man. 
 Insulted by a heathen kingdom’s ban. 
 
 In ingrate Bethlehem’s stable, chill and wan. 
 His sacred breath first drew ; 
 
40 
 
 And at his coming man’s proud lip was curled, 
 E’en though he came unto a pagan world, 
 With revelation’s banner broad unfurled, 
 
 To Gentile and to Jew. 
 
 Southern Literary Messenger, 1841. 
 
 Alexandria, D. C. 
 

W"