Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
Sir Pavon and St. PavonSarah Hammond Palfrey (18231914)
S
Through prayers, a roar and din;
A brawling voice did shout,
“Knave shaveling, let me in!”
All fluttering, through the grate,
Like birds that hear a mew.
A knight was at the gate.
Still smoking from the ford;
His crimson right, that dangled, clutched
Half of his broken sword.
His charger’s mane with mud
Was clogged; he wavered in his seat;
His mail dropped drops of blood.
“Sir Pavon, late, I hight,
Of all the land around
The stanchest, mightiest knight.
Beset me at my back
In ambush. Fast and hard
They follow on my track.
Or shall I burst the door?”
The grating bolts ground back; the knight
Lay swooning in his gore.
Draw near a crushèd wasp,
Look, touch, and twitch away
Their hands, then lightly grasp,—
The summoned brethren bore,
And searched his wounds. He woke,
And roundly cursed and swore.
The elder chid. He flung
His gummy plasters at his mouth,
And bade him hold his tongue.
Upon his couch alone,
He viewed the valley, framed within
His window’s carven stone,
All as he lay along,
To see the smoke-wreaths from his towers
Climb up the clouds among.
A balsam to his guest,
On soft feet tutored long
To break no sufferer’s rest,
Drink deep in draughts of woe;
Then “Benedicite, my son,”
He breathed, in murmurs low.
Upon the unwelcome spy;
But changed his shaggy face, as when,
Down through a stormy sky,
Looks on a landscape grim.
He crossed himself before the priest,
And speechless gazed on him.
And meet for governing;
The beauty of his holiness
Did crown him like a king.
His deep and reverent eye
Seemed o’er a peaceful past to gaze,—
A blest futurity.
Was worn so pure and thin,
That through the callow angel showed,
Half-hatched that stirred within.
At eve, the brethren said,
E’en then a shimmering halo dawned
Around his saintly head.
Became a hallowed aisle.
Men knelt; and children ran to seek
The blessing of his smile;
And stood at every door,
And held their babies up, and put
The weanlings forth before.
Men sickening unto death
Their sweet infectious health give out,
And heal them with their breath,
In heavenly pastures fed,
Still somewhat of its innocence
On all around him shed.
He bound with fearless skill,
Who lay and watched him, meek and mute,
And let him work his will,
Thus mused his fancy quaint:
“My grandam told me once of saints,
And this is, sure, a saint!
And sat upon her knee,
Less mindful of the story than
Of cates she gave to me.)
Came down to drown them all,
And that they only now in stone
Stood on the minster wall,
Upon the window high,
Where, swelled with spring-tides, breaks the sea
Beneath, and leaves them dry,
And breathed and walked no more
Upon the muddy earth, to do
The deeds they did of yore,
Where e’en their shadows fell;
But here is one that’s living yet,
And he shall make me well.”
His watch beside him kept,
Until he dropped his burning lids,
And like an infant slept.
Some weary weeks were spent
In tossing and in pain,
Before the knight’s huge frame was braced
With strength and steel again.
The day he left his bed,
And fitted on by novice hands,
“To prop him up,” he said.)
Amazed with all he saw,
Through cell and through refectory,
With little grace or awe.
He sat, a mouthful took,
And shot it spattering through his beard,
Sprang up, and cursed the cook.
He chucked him ’neath the chin,
And cried, “What cheer?” or, “Dost thou find
That hair-cloth pricks the skin?”
In meditation meet,
Or penance, mute, he kindly vowed
To cheer his lone retreat.
“How fares thy stiffened tongue?
Let mine suffice for both,”—and trolled
A lusty drinking-song.
Did scourge his meagre hide,
When Pavon on his rounds came in,
And stood, well pleased, beside:
Nay, hast thou tired thine arm?
Give me thy hempen bunch of cords,
And I will make thee warm.”
The monk. Him Pavon whipped
Right deftly, through the cloister, till
For aid he cried and skipped.
Of holy Quiet, all
Where’er Sir Pavon went or came
Was outcry, noise, and brawl;
“Anon this coil must cease.
To-morrow is the Truce of God;
Then let him go in peace.
To render thanks to-night
For life restored; for now we go
To do our vesper rite.”
The wild, unruly guest
His hest obeyed, and mutely moved
Beside the solemn priest.
He strove to curb his stride,
And blushed to hear his jack-boots’ clang
Amid the sandals’ slide.
Its misty, sweet perfume,
As over him the minster great
Came with its awful gloom.
His faltering steps were led;
Beside him was the living saint,
Beneath, the sainted dead.
The holy altar stood;
Above it, carved by martyr hands,
Arose the Holy Rood;
Vowed candles white and tall;
And frosted cup and patine, clear,
In silver, painted all.
The rumbling organ rolled,
And roared sweet thunders up to heaven,
Through all its pipes of gold.
Upright, he heard the hymn
With fallen chin and lifted eye
That searched the arches dim;
Responding, tone and word,
A choir of answering seraphim
Above he deemed he heard.
Still rapt and pale as death;
So passed he through the banging gate,
Then drew a long-drawn breath,
“I cannot ‘go in peace,’
Nor find elsewhere a man like thee,
Nor hear such strains as these!”
“Then I a monk will be.”
“Kneel down upon thy knee, fair son,
And tell thy sins to me.”
And will not bend it well.
‘My sins!’ A peerless knight like me,
What should he have to tell?
Till treason wrought my harm,
Nor then, before my shattered sword
Weighed down my shattered arm.
Forgot my friend or foe,
Nor left a benefit unpaid
With weal, or wrong with woe.
Still, ere my blows began,
Nor gashed mine unarmed enemy,
Nor smote a fellèd man,
Of generous chivalry;
And maid and matron ever found
A champion leal in me.
In war, I did not hoard,
But spent as gallantly in peace,
With neighbors round my board.”
For miles who tilled thy ground?”
“Tush, father, nay! The high-born knights
For many a league around.
In battle and in sport.
’Twere wondrous shame, should one like me
With beggar kernes consort!
He said; and so he ceased,
And bore a blithe and guileless cheer,
That sore perplexed the priest.
He searched his breast within.
Still said he, “So I sinnèd not,”
Or, “That is, sure, no sin.”
“Alack, the man is lost!
Erewhile he must have grieved away
The warning Holy Ghost!
Hath scared from him to heaven!
Who cannot mourn, nor see, his sin,
How can he be forgiven?
Doth he not say, in sooth,
He lies who saith, I have no sin,
Quite empty of the truth!
“’Sblood!—Saints!—A knight to read!”
The abbot read. The novice strove,
With duteous face, to heed,
And to the door did leap,
Cried, “Holla, ho!” and then, abashed,
Sat down and dropped asleep.
Sweet Mary be my speed!
For sure the sorer is my task,
The sorer is his need.”
With pondering, pitying eyes,
As the leech on the sick whose hidden ail
All herbs and drugs defies;
He to Sir Pavon said,
“When all men sleep, thy vigil to keep,
In the crypt among the dead?
Less false than the tongues of Day,
While Mercy the prayer hath full leisure to hear,
Of all who wake to pray.
But oft to the sinner’s heart
Remorse, with the tale, she sends to wail,
And thus atones in part.”
Good father, do not spare.
Ne’er yet have I found, on or under the ground,
The venture I could not dare.
Shall I shun a dead clerk’s bones to see?
Ne’er till now I pledged my hand to serve in the band
Of captain I loved like thee.”
Sir Pavon sat upon his shield,
And breathed the earthy damp,
And strained his empty ear to hear
The simmering of his lamp.
Hung round with shadows dim,
That drooped as if the low-groined roof
Did crouch to fall on him.
Like sentry gnomes stood round;
And lettered slabs, that roofed the dead,
Lay thickly on the ground.
But heard them not until
He deemed it dawn. They swelled at last,
And ceased; and all was still.
The Past was dead and gone;
Time dwindled to a single point;
The convent-clock toiled One.
But by no human hand;
And there entered in a Cry,
And before him seemed to stand,—
That lifted the hair on his head;—
’Twas small as a new-born babe’s at first,
But straightway it rose and spread,
And his ears they rang and beat;
The hard walls throbbed around, above,
And the stones crept under his feet;
He reeled and almost fell;
And fast for aid he gasped and prayed,
Till he heard the matin-bell.
Scarce knew him. In that night,
His nut-brown beard and crispèd hair
Had turned to snowy white.
Like to a hunted beast,
To Abbot Urban’s cell
He rushed; and with a foamy lip
Down at his feet he fell:
O father, help! It said
That I the Lord of life
Had scourged and buffeted,
And sold him to his foes;
Then, through the hollow earth,
In dreary triumph rose
A fiendish chorus dim,
‘He did it unto one of
He did it unto
“My father, on my word,
In court or camp, abroad, at home,
I never knew the Lord!
I had a hunchback slave,
Who to the beggars round my door
From his own trencher gave,
Despite the porter’s blows,
And broke into my banquet-hall,
With tidings of their woes.
But thought no harm, nor knew
The Lord so squalid minions had,
Among his chosen few;
I’ll freely give thee thrice,
In broad, bright rounds of ruddy gold,
The pittance of his price.”
This cannot make thee whole.
Each stripe that rends the slave’s poor flesh,
It hurts his Master’s soul;
He said beneath his breath,
“I fear the Masters sprite for aye
Rots in the second death.
Since thou thy sin canst see,
’Tis plain thy guardian angel back
Hath flown from heaven to thee.
And limb that’s numb with frost,
Are saved by timely aches. If first
They reach the fire, they’re lost.
Whose beaming smile on high,
With light, and life, and love doth fill
The mansions of the sky,
Unto a rapturous glow,
Who duly sought his scattered rays,
To bask in them below,
Of blazing pangs untold,
To those whom death hath made more pale,
But could not make more cold.
Unless by devils driven,
Would never turn his laggard steps
To hurry unto heaven.
Unto their dreary lay,
Ere came the night that summoned thee
To chant with them for aye!
Their gnashing teeth they laughed
And screamed, I read thee yester eve,
And they with wonted craft
That thou shouldst come to share,
As birds by hissing serpents scared
Drop down, through sheer despair.
Each holy Scripture still
Doth bear a blessing for the good,
A curse unto the ill.
Too much their threatening voice,
Who tremble and believe. Thou yet
Believing mayst rejoice.
This penance shalt thou do;
Thyself in sad humility
To seek Christ’s servant go,
His tears with thine, if still
His limbs the toil-exacting earth
In misery tread and till.”
Upraised the haggard guest:
“And even here, and even yet,
For me no heavenly rest!”
“God help thee now, poor son!
The heavenly rest is but for those
Who heavenly work have done.
’Twixt sin and sin forgiven;
Still purgatory lies between
The wicked world and heaven.
The plunge through whelming floods.
The bitter years man loathes are but
Eternity’s green buds.
To harm been brisk and brave;
Thou wilt not shrink, when sent by Christ
To suffer and to save.”
Sir Pavon’s gallant steed was dead;
Sir Pavon’s sword was broke.
On foot he went; and in his hand
The abbot’s staff he took,
Beneath the parching sun,
That eyed him through his riven wall
Before the day was done.
Black charcoal paved the floor;
Up rose his hunger-maddened hound,
And bit him in the door.
Unto the sooty tower;
His rifled coffers upside down
Lay in his secret bower.
The banquet-hall below;
The hollow-voicèd echoes chid
Each other, to and fro.
A titter and a shout;
In rushed his rabble rout of hinds,
And round him danced about:
Where hast thou left thy sword,
Thy kingly port, and lusty blows?
We serve another lord.”
They drove him from his door:
“Now fare ye well, my fathers’ halls!
We part to meet no more.
Farewell, my slippery wealth,
That bought my soul’s sore malady,
Nor stayed to buy my health!
The Devil’s work so well,
All blasted by God’s thunderbolts,
That on my spirit fell!
Who, ’mid the sordid Jews,
By love, not fear, constrainèd couldst
At Satan’s hands refuse
And choose the cross and rod,—
Thy more than earthly manhood in
Its glory unto God
The beaten losel me,
Who, worthless for thy service, come
For shelter unto thee.”
And Famine spun his head:
“I would, of all my feasts, were left
One little crust of bread.”
He reached a wooden hut;
The chinks were gilt by light therein,
But close the door was shut.
Within, with sob and groan,
Entreated Heaven in agony
To send her back her son:
His face,—the voice of joy
Mere heart-break till his laugh I hear!
O, send me back my boy!
If thus I grieve, I dread
Lest, when he hurries back to me,—
Poor youth!—he find me dead.
And buried anywhere!
What has the ground or brine to do
With his dear mouth and hair,
There by his empty chair?
Yon doublet new, I’ve wrought for him,
He’ll soon come back to wear.
That with his brows did toy,
When tired he slept. How could the worms
Or fishes eat my boy?
Didst yield to pain and death,
And know’st ’tis deadlier pain to do’t,
Than give the rattling breath,
His faith and trust be given,
That I may clasp him yet again,
If not on earth, in heaven.”
The door flew open wide.
“Fear not, good mother,” he began.
“O, is it thou?” she cried,
“If thou wilt give to me
A morsel, and a cup of wine,
Perchance thy charity,
I may full well requite,
If lives thy son, and bring him back.
I am a famous knight,—
Despoiled me traitorly,—
And maid and matron ever found
A champion leal in me.”
Nor yet a crust of bread!
Herbs for my noontide meal I culled,
Untasted still,” she said;
Scant fare for hungry guest!—
But sit thee down at least, and feed
Thy weariness with rest.
“Good mother, many a one.
I pray you fill my cup once more.”
“O, hast thou seen my son?”
Was seized and sold away,
I know not where. No news of him
Has reached me from that day.
His scanty portion share.
Thou eatest from his platter now,
And sittest in his chair.
“Sir Pavon was his name.”
His platter dropped, and over him
A deadly sickness came.
And on his brow did strike;
These mothers are like God, then,—love
Ugly and fair alike!
To find him is my quest;
Nor till ’tis done, in life or death,
For me is any rest.
Meanwhile upon me laid.
For his deliverance pray, and mine;
And take me in his stead.
Until I give him back.
I’ve many friends would give us steeds
To bear us on his track.”
“Who may yon man be, who on foot
Comes in his iron coat,
And, with an old wife at his side,
Toils towards the castle-moat?
If thirty years were o’er;
But he is dead, they say. We’ll know.
Ho, there! The drawbridge lower!
Thou lookest like a ghost.”
“Nigh slain was I by treachery:
My sword and all is lost.
With thee I may not bide,
But day and night, by fiends pursued,
Upon a quest must ride,
To bondage with a slave.
My merry life is dead in me!
Myself a haunted grave!
Some food and drink I pray
For this poor dame, and gold and steeds,
To bear us on our way.”
Lead hence, and feed him well;
And when our feast is done to-night,
His tale we’ll hear him tell.
Perchance ’twill please my guests
To list. My fool is growing old,
And oft repeats his jests.”
Ranged by the seneschal,
When Pavon fed and calmed came in,
And stood before them all,
In many a well-known face,
And fell upon some cooling hearts
Once more in kind embrace:
Again among you here,
Though ’neath my ruined towers no more
We make our wonted cheer!
And mark it well, before
I look my last upon you all,
Perchance, forevermore.
Within me or without,—
I know not which,—a horrid voice:
It drives me still about.
As terrible as new,
Undreamed of to that hour by me,
To this, I ween, by you.
Dear as himself doth hold;
Thus he who sells his Christian slave,
His master, Christ, hath sold,
The fiends have learned a hymn,—
‘Who did it unto one of his,
Hath done it unto him.’”
And some were pale with fear;
“Out!” roared the host, “ye serving men,
What make ye gaping here,
Such ravings if they hear,
They’ll rave themselves. I saw them all
Prick up each meddling ear.
A very sorry jest
Was this to make you sport withal;
He told me of a quest.”
The hunchback, whom of old,
When thou wert wassailing with me
At Christmastide, I sold.
I will not mar your feast;
But, Raymond, for the red-roan steeds
I lent thee, give at least
That I thereon may lead
His blister-footed mother hence,
And make the better speed.”
If madman e’er I saw,
He’s mad! What say ye? Let him go?
Or give him chains and straw!”
“He’s harmless; let him go.”
“Nay, if he stirreth up the serfs
I cannot count him so.”
He dashed the casement through,
Leaped headlong down, and all in steel
He swam the moat below.
But soon returned without,
So hotly with the abbot’s staff
He ’mongst them laid about.
Looked wondering down to see
The knight the hobbling crone await,
With pity and with glee.
He propped her with his arm,
And with his staff, and bent as if
To soothe her weak alarm;
“Sure, he who findeth out
How fickle are the world’s sweet smiles,
Can do its smiles without.”
Long years of hunger, cold, and heat,
And home-sick toil in vain;—
Long years of wandering up and down,
O’er inland, coast, and main;—
And longing day and night,
Who, ever present with the soul,
Hath vanished from the sight!
Thrives, rooted in his place;
The bondman, like a withered leaf,
Flits on and leaves no trace.
He seemed no more a knight;
Yet ever to himself he said,
While raged his inward fight,
How slowly done away!
Shall all eternity repair
My trespass of a day?”
And most, “I cannot tell,”
They ate the stranger’s crusts, and drank
At many a stranger’s well.
Between her and the blast.
She cheered him with forgiving words,
And begged his scant repast.
Thus went they hand in hand,
The master and the slave. They trod
The cactus-hatching sand.
Where, quenched, the heavenward eye,
Sinks dizzy back to earth, beneath
The crumbling, sinking sky.
“O, sail-borne trader, hast thou seen,
In lands beneath the sun,
Or in the shadow of the pole,
My Anselm? O my son!”
Ask, have I seen a sheep!
Ay, flocks and flocks, where’er I go.
Yon Moors their hundreds keep,—
Where ’twixt these fronting lands
The writhing sea his pent-up way
Tears ’twixt the rocks and sands.”
Is wondrous mild and fair;
His eyes are kind and bright; and fine
And silky is his hair.”
Whose petted ewe hath strayed!”
“He bore a hump upon his back,”
Sir Pavon softly said,—
The custom of mankind.”
Before the statelier questioner
The merchant searched his mind.
A twelvemonth scarce agone.
A fever-smitten sailor there
We left to die alone;—
Our venture had been lost,
Had we not seized the first fair gale
To sweep us from the coast.
His living face no more,
But haply give him burial.
He met me on the shore,
This handle of my knife.
A slave, he said, had ta’en him in
And nursed him like a wife,
How called you yours?” “His name
Was Anselm.” “Ay, and so was his,
It is the very same.
Doth beat him to and fro;
He limps with water from the tanks
To make the melons grow.
Impatient for the deep!
Anon shall she to Tripoli
So lightly dart and leap;
His mother shall he see;—
What costs a good turn now and then?—
Embark and sail with me,
They’ll call for little food,
On landlocked billows, sickened by
The tossing of the flood.”
But ere they neared the pier
The old wife on death’s threshold lay,
Distraught with hope and fear.
Thou hast nor friends nor gold.
How may I even crawl to him
His misery to behold?
And leave me at his feet!”
“Nay, thou wert patient all those years.
Here, sheltered from the heat,
It may be but an hour.
Our Lord, who bade to succor him,
I think shall give the power.
Wilt bear him hence?” “My head,
And thine, were lost belike! Art mad?
’Twould surely cost my trade.
“Thou’rt known to Hassan?” “Ay.”
“Then lead me to him; and the Lord,
I think, the slave shall buy.
“Ay, on mine honest word.
Oft as I may, I gladly do
A pleasure to the Lord.”
An atmosphere of rest
Hung brooding o’er his soft divan,
His beard slept on his breast.
Did round about him fall,
To thread the mazy arabesques
Paved in his marble hall.
While, robed in spangled spray,
Amidst them high a fountain danced
In whispering, tittering play.
His features swart and still;
“I ought” had ne’er been written there,
But petrified, “I will.”
This godly man would speak,
A very godly man!—Methinks
His wits are somewhat weak.”
I’ve sought through dreary years;
Wilt give him up?” “In change for what?”
“Our prayers and grateful tears.”
When misbelievers stand
Amazed in judgment, he shall plead
For thee at God’s right hand;
I know it all too well!
And I up from my lower place
Will cry aloft and tell,
Who lifted out of hell;
Till all the saints shall join with me,
O blessed infidel!”
To serve thee faithfully,
Another slave I’ll give,—myself,—
As stout a wight as he.”
He is thy son or brother?”
“My serf of yore.” “’Tis strange, if true!
Most Christians hate each other.
But if to me thou liest,
And seek’st to steal thyself away,
E’en in my gates thou diest.”
A turbaned menial throng.
Strange words he spake. A dusky Moor
Good Pavon led along,
And paling, glowing cheek,
And trembling lips compressed, that strove
To brace themselves to speak,
Till, ’twixt the twinkling twigs
Of citron, and of orange-trees,
And sun-bathed purple figs,
On beds both long and broad,
And Anselm, staggering forth to them,
Bent ’neath his watery load.
Amazed, he did but choke;
For with its mighty wrath and joy,
His great heart almost broke.
His pitcher from his hand.
The slave dropped back his drooping head,
And strove to understand,
His dazzled eyes above,
Why came the tall mute man to him,
In enmity or love.
At last hath fired my brain!
I seem to see one far away,
Perchance long dead again,—
Of famine, wild and weak,
Or fever. Wherefore gaze on it?
If ’twas a man ’twould speak.”
Fell crying on his breast:
“Forgive me, brother, if thou canst!
I’ve known no peace nor rest,
The wrong I did to thee,
And mine own soul, roamed o’er the earth!
From henceforth thou art free.”
“Ay; and I hold thee fast
In verity, as oft in dreams,
When, as my slumber past,
’Mid fading visioned lands,
And shouting woke, with bloody nails
Clenched in mine empty hands.”
He’s saved!—And am I free?”
“Ay, go thy ways in joy, poor friend,
Nor cease to pray for me.
Awaits thee, in his bark.
His homeward voyage bears him by
The abbey of St. Mark.
Will house and feed thine age
When thou hast told to them the end
Of Pavon’s pilgrimage,
He must remembered be
By novices he nurtured.” “Sir,
Dost thou not come with me?
“Not to forsake thee here.
I’ll serve thee in this homesick land
For love, as erst from fear.”
The hunchback’s raptured face:
“Why stays he, Selim, know’st?” “To draw
Our water in thy place.”
He spake: “It shall not be!
All blessings bless thee for the thought,
But ’twere not meet for thee!
And God hath taught to me
That willing bondage borne in Christ
Is loftier liberty.”
St. Pavon following said.
The slave took up his water-pots,
Moved on, and shook his head.
Or be for aye abhorred
Of Heaven.” “I’ll help thee bear it.”
“Nay, stint not mine earned reward!”
He fixed, and joyously
Cried, “Laggard son, thy mother waits
Among the ships for thee!”
Till, through the twinkling twigs
Of citron, and of orange-flowers,
And sun-bathed purple figs,
The beach, and scale the deck,
Towards outstretched arms, that like a trap
Did spring and catch his neck.
Which seemed to blow away,
In one great sigh, his life’s great woe,
And to himself did say,
Or that, my lot may fall,
I bear this scene in memory,
And I can bear it all.”
As eager and as bold
As when his brethren’s blood plashed round
His iron march of old.
All in one brimming cup,—
One wasteful draught of feverish strength,—
And bade him drink it up.
He dashed them on the ground;
He panted to and fro; well-nigh
The melons swam or drowned.
Did near the lattice lurk,
And twinkle through its screen, to see
The Christian madman work.
Some demon toils within
Yon unbeliever, or a troop
Of slaves in one’s shrunk skin.”
The noontide sun, and beat
Upon his old bald head, and pricked
Through all his frame with heat;
“O Christ, and didst thou see
My brother in this torment gasp,
And through my cruelty!”
Black turned the red-hot day;
He scarce could drag to Anselm’s lair
His heavy limbs away.
He deemed it was the dawn.
He oped his eyes; and, lo! the veil
Of glory was withdrawn;
And sweeter than the moon,
Showed earth a part of heaven! He sighed,
“’Tis a God-granted boon,—
A glimpse of Paradise!
O, fade not yet! A moment more,
Ere to my toil I rise.”
Like wingèd Joys stood round.
“Arise!” they said. He rose and left
His body on the ground,
With sudden buoyancy
And ease, he turned and saw aghast
His ghastly effigy.
Not yet! not yet!” he said;
“I am a traitor! Give me time!
O, let me not be dead!
And scorch, nor bid me brook,
Ere I’ve avenged him well on me,
Mine outraged Master’s look!”
“Brave martyr, do not fear.
Our Master calls! He waits for thee
To share his bridal cheer!
As mortals tell their years,
Since loud we struck our harps, and sang
Thy triumph o’er thy tears.”
A shining Urban stood:
“God gave thee grace to overcome
Thine evil with thy good.
I taught to thee of yore,
That blessings hid, their threats amid,
The awful Scriptures bore.”
In wildered transports sprang;
And up the sunny morn they soared.
The dwindling earth did hang
That thickened all about;
And wide a song of triumph pealed
And rang this burden out:
His charity sufficed;
He did it unto one of C
He did it unto C