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348       MARY E. HEWITT.

Within the land thou giv'st me to inherit,
  Where evermore the fragrant South wind blows,
  dwell with heart of flame and thirsting spirit—
  For here no well of cooling water flows.

Where the sweet rills through earth's deep veins are flowing,
  The lily at some hidden spring is nursed;
On its frail stem the asphodel is blowing,
  While I, thy child, I perish here of thirst!

Thou who, when pale affliction's sons and daughters
  Came to Bethesda's healing font to lave,
Saw where they watch'd beside the silent waters,
  And sent an angel down to touch the wave—

Thou who, when wandering Israel, parched and dying,
  Unto the prophet cried in sore distress,
Heard, and in mercy to their plaint replying,
  Bade the flood gush amid the wilderness—

Hear me!  To Thee my soul in suppliance turneth,
  Like the lorn pilgrim on the sands accursed;
For life's sweet waters, God! my spirit yearneth—
  Give me to drink!  I perish here of thirst!


MIDNIGHT ON MARATHON.   

(A GREEK SUPERSTITION.)

WHEN midnight to the peasant yields
  The meed from labour won,
'Tis said the sleeping legions rise
  On storied Marathon.

Their banner, with its sacred bird
  Flung proudly to the sky,
Down sweeps again the Athenian host,
  To conquer, or to die.


MARY E. HEWITT.            349

Again the air-forged falchion cleaves
  The turban of the Mede,
And sinks beneath the shadowy spear
  The Persian and his steed.

Amid the pale, contending hosts
  The watcher may behold
The shade of THESEUS lead the fight,
  As on that day of old.*

The rush of spectral war is heard,
  And clearly on the breeze
Comes from the fiercely-charging band
  The cry, "MILTIADES!"

Where'er that glorious shape appears,
  Wherever sounds that cry,
Again the phantom cohorts reel.
  Again they turn and fly.

They fly, as from that field of gore
  The smitten Asian fled;
And Marathon lies calm once more
  Above her silent dead.

And thou, when darkness o'er thee lies,
  And fears to being start;
And strong conflicting memories rise
  From that deep grave, the heart—

Oh Soul! appall'd with doubt and dread,
  How would all terrors fly,
Were FAITH thy leader in the fight,
  And "CHRIST" thy battle-cry?

*"It was an ancient superstition, not uncharacteristic of that imaginative people, that many of them (at the battle of Marathon) fancied they beheld the gigantic shade of their ancestral Theseus, completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the foe."—Athens: Its Rise and Fall.
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Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 15:08:04 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 18:55:23