BY R. H. STODDARD.
I saw the Past, in heaven a mighty train,
A countless multitude of solemn years,
Standing like souls of martyred saints, and tears
Ran down their pallid cheeks like summer rain;
They clasped and wrung their white hands evermore,
Wailing, demanding vengeance on the world:
And Judgment, with his garments sprinkled o'er
With guilty blood, and dusky wings unfurled,
And sword unsheathed, expectant of His nod,
Stood waiting by the burning throne, and God
Rose up in heaven in ire—but Mercy fair,
A piteous damsel clad in spotless white,
In supplication sweet and earnest prayer
Knelt at his feet and clung around his robe of light.
A countless multitude of solemn years,
Standing like souls of martyred saints, and tears
Ran down their pallid cheeks like summer rain;
They clasped and wrung their white hands evermore,
Wailing, demanding vengeance on the world:
And Judgment, with his garments sprinkled o'er
With guilty blood, and dusky wings unfurled,
And sword unsheathed, expectant of His nod,
Stood waiting by the burning throne, and God
Rose up in heaven in ire—but Mercy fair,
A piteous damsel clad in spotless white,
In supplication sweet and earnest prayer
Knelt at his feet and clung around his robe of light.