What hast thou done? O heaven!
What hast thou done? And think'st thou he is saved
By such a compact? Think'st thou he can live
Bereft of thee? Of thee, his light of life,
His very soul! Of thee, beloved far more
Than his loved parents,—than his children more,
More than himself!-Oh! no, it shall not be !
Thou perish, O Alcestis! in the flower
Of thy young beauty;-perish, and destroy
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all,
Who as a child adore thee! Desolate
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee.
And think'st thou not of those, whose tender years
Demand thy care?-thy children! think of them!
O thou, the source of each domestic joy,—
Thou in whose life alone Admetus lives,-
His glory, his delight,-thou shalt not die,
While I can die for thee!-Me, me alone,
The oracle demands,--a withered stem,
Whose task, whose duty is, for him to die.
35 My race is run;-the fulness of my years,
The faded hopes of age, and all the love
Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart,
And the fond pity, half with wonder blent,
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifta
So richly is endowed,-all, all unite
To grave in adamant the just decree,
That I must die. But thou-I bid thee live!
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis! live!
Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass
An aged sire's devotedness.
Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love;
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain
Strove to anticipate their high resolves.
But if in silence I have heard thy words,
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own
They may not be withstood.
Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save
Him who, with thee, would perish :-to the shrine
E'en now I fly.
Stay, stay thee! 't is too late.
Already hath consenting Proserpine,
From the remote abysses of her realms,
Heard and accepted the terrific vow
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties.
To death. And I am firm, and well I know
None can deprive me of the awful right
That vow hath won.
Yes! thou mayst weep my fate,
Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame
My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endeared
My life by every tie, the more I feel
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend
To the dim, shadowy regions of the dead,
A guest more honored.
In thy presence here
Again I utter the tremendous vow,
Now more than half fulfilled. I feel, I know
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins
The insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er.
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard ;—he calls,
He suminons me away, and thou art saved,
O my Admet is!
INTROITUS. From Longfellow's Divine Tragedy.
The Angel bearing the Prophet Habakkuk through the air.
WHY dost thou bear me aloft,
O Angel of God, on thy pinions
O'er realms and dominions?
Softly I float as a cloud
In air, for thy right hand upholds me,
Thy garment enfolds me!.
Lo! as I passed on my way
In the harvest-field I beheld thee,
When no man compelled thee,
Bearing with thine own hands
This food to the famishing reapers,
A flock without keepers!
The fragrant sheaves of the wheat
Made the air above them sweet;
Sweeter and more divine
Was the scent of the scattered grain,
That the reaper's hand let fall
To be gathered again
By the hand of the gleaner!
Sweetest, divinest of all,
Was the humble deed of thine,
And the meekness of thy demeanor:
Angel of Light,
I cannot gainsay thee,
I can but obey thee!
Beautiful was it in the Lord's sight,
To behold his Prophet
Feeding those that toil,
The tillers of the soil.
But why should the reapers eat of it
And not the Prophet of Zion
In the den of the lion?
The Prophet should feed the Prophet!
Therefore I thee have uplifted,
And bear thee aloft by the hair
Of thy head, like a cloud that is drifted
Through the vast unknown of the air!
Five days hath the Prophet been lying
In Babylon, in the den
Of the lions, death-defying,
Defying hunger and thirst;
But the worst
Is the mockery of men!
Alas! how full of fear
Is the fate of Prophet and Seer!
Forevermore, forevermore,
It shall be as it hath been heretofore;
The age in which they live
The splendor of the everlasting light, That makes their foreheads bright, Nor the sublime
Fore-running of their time!
O tell me, for thou knowest,
Wherefore and by what grace,
Have I, who am least and lowest,
Been chosen to this place,
To this exalted part?
The Struggler; and from thy youth
Thy humble and patient life
Hath been a strife
And battle for the Truth;
Nor hast thou paused nor halted,
Nor ever in thy pride
Turned from the poor aside,
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