How smooth the brow where toil had left its trace! How confident the look, how calm the eyes Once keen with life and restless enterprise! And gone the lines that marked the spirit's haste To do its work, nor any moment waste. Imperial peace and beauty crown his head, God's superscription writ upon the dead. Behold, herein, his dream, his inmost thought As if in time-washed Parian marble wrought. Truly he read the law we must obey: Man moulds the image and God gives the clay, And if it's cast of God or Cæsar is To each all render what is rightly his. Thousands at noontide are climbing the hills under Nain, like an army Fleeing the carnage of war, seeking where it may rest and take counsel; Some with the blind or the palsied, some bearing the sick on their shoulders, Lagging but laboring hard, so they be not too far from the Prophet; Some bringing only a burden of deep and inveterate longing. Hard by the gate of the city their Captain halts and is waiting. Closer the multitude presses and widens afar on the hillside; Thronged are the ways to the city with eager and hastening comers. Heard ye? A man was delivered from death by his power, and the story Crosses the murmuring host like a wave passing over the waters, How at the touch of his finger this day, the dead rose and was living. Hushed are the people; the Prophet is speaking; his hand is uplifted-- Lo! the frail hand that ere long was to stop the mad rush of the tempest. Quickly their voices are hushed, and the fear of Jehovah is on them. Jesus stood high on a hillock. His face, so divinely impassioned, Shone with the light that of old had illumined the dreams of the prophets. Gently he spake, like a shepherd who calleth his flock to green pastures. Hiding her face and apart from the people, a woman stood weeping, Daughter of woe! on a rosary strung with her tears ever counting Treasures her heart had surrendered and writ on her brow was the record. Hope and the love of her kindred and peace and all pleasure had left her Chained to the pillar of life like a captive, and Shame was her keeper. Long spake the Prophet, and scarcely had finished when came the afflicted, Loudly entreating: "Make way for the blind!" and the people were parted, Silent with pity, and many were suffered to pass; but the woman Felt no miraculous touch, for the press kept her back and rebuked her. "Why comest thou to the Prophet?" they said. "Get thee hence and be silent; "He hath no mercy for thee or thy kind"; and the woman stood weeping. Now when the even was come over Nain, and the bridge of the twilight,