Harmosan

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,

And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won.

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy,

Captive overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.

Then exclaimed the noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst;

Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!"

In his hand he took the goblet, but awhle the draught forbore,

Seeming doubtully the purpose of the foemen to explore.

Well might then have paused the bravest -- for around him angry foes

With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose.

"But what fear'st thou?" cried the caliph; -- "is it, friend, a secret blow?

Fear it not! -- our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know.

"Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before

Thou hast drunk that cup of water -- this reprieve is thine -- no more!"

Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,

And the liquid sand for ever, lost amid the burning sand.

"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup

I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!"

For a moment stood the calph as by doubtful passions stirred --

Then exclaimed: "For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word.

"Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give:

Drink, I said before, and perish -- now I bid thee drink and live!"

Richard Chenevix Trench

Three Sonnets on Prayer

Lord, what a change within us one short hour

Spent in Thy presence will prevail to make --

What heavy burdens from our bosoms take,

What parchèd grounds refresh, as with a shower!

We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;

We rise, and all, the distant and the near,

Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear;

We kneel how weak, we rise how full of power!

Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,

Or others -- that we are not always strong;

That we are ever overborne with care;

That we should ever weak or heartless be,

Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer,

And joy, and strength, and courage, are with Thee?

A garden so well watered before morn

Is hotly up, that not the swart sun's blaze

Down beating with unmitigated rays,

Nor arid winds from scorching places borne,

Shall quite prevail to make it bare and shorn

Of its green beauty -- shall not quite prevail

That all its morning freshness shall exhale,

Till evening and the evening dews return --

A blessing such as this our hearts might reap,

The freshness of the garden they might share,

Through the long day a heavenly freshness keep,

If, knowing how the day and day's glare

Must beat upon them, we would largely steep

And water them betimes with dews of prayer.

When hearts are full of yearning tenderness,

For the loved absent, whom we can not reach --

By deed or token, gesture or kind speech,

The spirit's true affection to express;

When hearts are full of innermost distress,

And we are doomed to stand inactive by,

Watching the soul's or body's agony,

Which human effort helps not to make less --

Then like a cup capacious to contain

The overflowings of the heart, is prayer:

The longing of the souls is satisfied,

The keenest darts of anguish blunted are;

And, though we can not cease to yearn or grieve,

Yet we have learned in patience to abide.

Richard Chenevix Trench