For his hair was so white, and his eyes so cold, That they left him alone with his crown of gold. So King Solomon stood up, dead in the House Of the Lord, held there by the Pentegraph, Until out from a pillar there ran a red mouse, And gnawed through the ebony staff: Then flat on his face the King fell down: And they picked from the dust a golden crown. OWEN MEREDITH (1831-1891). THE PRINCE OF EDOM. THE warriors of David came down in their ire, And Edom was scathed with their deluge of fire; O'er the wrecks of its throne roll'd oblivion's dark flood, And the thirst of its valleys was satiate with blood. Its prince, a lone outcast, an orphan distrest, In the palace of Egypt found refuge and rest, And the queen's gentle sister, with eye like the dove, Became in her beauty the bride of his love. Yet still, a dark shade o'er his features would stray, Though the lute-strings thrill'd soft and the banquet was gay; For the land of his fathers in secret he pined, And murmur'd his grief to the waves and the wind. "The voice of my country! It haunteth my dreams, I start from my sleep at the rush of its streams; Oh, monarch of Egypt! sole friend in Which washes past them with a golden gleam, Watering thy gardens sweet with flowers. "What hast thou lacked, that thou wouldst fare away?" "Nothing," he answered; "yet let me go, I pray. Thou hast been good to me, ay, passing kind; Yet, with enough to satisfy the mind, The heart is empty. Let me go!" "What! hast thou not a dearly treasured wife, Whose love is poured into thy cup of life, To fill thy heart to overflow, Whose white arms lace thee to a faithful breast? In a true woman's love is perfect rest." "No, sire!" said Hadad, sadly, "no!" "What hast thou lacked?" once more asked the King. Then Hadad slowly raised his head. "Nothing: Yet-let me go! Sire! many years ago, a feeble child, Seven stately palm-trees by a leaking well; A torrent bed, the water spent. I used to watch the morning sun arise Over sharp mountain ridges, into skies Bluer than turquoise in this ring; And floods of glory down the valleys rolled, Turning the seven palms into palms of gold, And gilding birds of passing wing. I heard the rock-doves calling with soft I watched the lively cricket leap, And with the burnished beetle I would play, Or climb the rocks for flowers-thus pass my day, Or steal into the shade to sleep. Sire! I must Edom see again once more; This land is exile, and my heart is sore, Nothing my heart will satisfy. I value not my riches, nor the pride Of rank and rule; I but half love my bride. I must see Edom, or I die! There lived my father and my mother" 'TIS so; the hoary harper sings aright; How beautiful is Zion!-Like a queen, Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness, Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements, And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods, Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Wave their dark beauty 'round the tower of David. Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, The embrazures of alabaster shine; Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound To Judah's mart with Orient merchandise. But not, for thou art fair and turret crowned, And bitterly bemoans his Dead. The stars Shine on his lifted face,-an old man's face, Swept by the winds of sorrow and re morse "Alas, my Brother! By this lonely grave; His grave, and mine; how often have I knelt Through burning days and bitter nights, to mourn And weep for him. In the hard wintertime, When snow is on the hill, and icy storms Sweep down from Lebanon, I mourn for him. And when the spring-time comes, the flowers return, And voices of the singing-birds are heard Through all the Land, once more I mourn for him. No voice can reach him, in the Spring of the year, Whispering sweetly, "Lo, the wintertime Is past and gone, rise up and come away!" He dreameth on, as careless of the And all the musical soft stir of life, moan Above his head in winter. Yet a while, A little while, and I shall go to him Who will not come to me. He, rising not To let me in, yet draws me to his side, And I shall shortly yield, and sleep with him. It may be that this very night, my God, After so long a time, will think of me And call me into Peace. He reckons up The number of my sins; He knows this stain Of guiltless blood, that burns upon the hem Of a Prophet's garment; yet, my God, I think That I, even I shall be as white as snow When I am dead. I know, or think I know, That my Redeemer liveth. O my God! Most terrible, most terrible-to Thee My hearts repeats this night its history, And, through the darkness, looketh to Thy Face. Thou knowest, only Thou, the old, old years When, in the Spring of life, my heart was Thine, And Thou wert mine. Then would I pass long days And solemn nights, afar from homes of men, That I might be alone, alone with Thee, And hear Thy voice, and see, perhaps, some gleam Of angel-feet upon the Desert-ground, Making it joyful, as with Summershowers. No simple human pleasures, dear to hearts More free than mine, had any charm for me: I only lived to hear the voice of God, For He had visited my soul, and mine It was to hear the Prophet's glorious doom. Thou knowest, Lord, because Thou knowest all, And yet thou knowest not (having no part In flesh and blood) the thrill and throb of soul And body, when to mortal lips is laid Thy coal of living fire*-and when our |