WHO doubteth when the Morning Star doth light|
Its lamp of beauty, that the day is coming?
Or where prime odours track the breeze’s flight
That in the vicinage rare flowers are blooming,
Or where the wild bees round about are humming
That there is honey in some cedar’s height,
Or that the Sea is heaving into sight
When from afar a surgy sound comes booming?
And surely, as the observer understands
What these pre-signify, as yet behind,
Thy Intellectual Amplitude expands
Before me in the Future when I find
Some early blossom breathing of thy mind—
Some thing of promise fashion’d by thy hands!
. . . . .
Had struggled from under his dying steed,
Where Egypt’s pyramids appeared:
While on his black war-horse, the Turk
Who had borne him down, to finish his work
Back wheelingly careered.
Taking his resolute stand
Urged into whirlwind speed,
Then passed with a vengeful clash
But two steeds and a Moslem in death lay still—