In the mean time Nimrod, being very curious to see Abraham, ordered Terah to bring him into his royal presence. The child entered the throne-room boldly, and going to the foot of the steps which led to the throne, he exclaimed; “Woe to thee, accursed Nimrod, blasphemer of God! Acknowledge, O Nimrod, that the true God is without body, everlasting, never slumbering nor sleeping; acknowledge that He created the world, that all men may believe in Him likewise!” At the same moment all the idols in the palace fell, and the king rolled from his throne in convulsions, and remained in a fit for two hours. When he came to himself again, he said to Abraham, “Was that thy voice, or was it the voice of God?” Abraham answered, “It was the voice of the meanest of His creatures.” “Then your God must be great and mighty, and a King of kings.” Nimrod now suffered Abraham to depart, and as his anger was abated, the child remained in his father’s house, and no attempts were made against his life. Here must be inserted a legend of the childhood of Abraham, which I have ventured to render into verse. THE GIFT OF THE KING. Nimrod the Cushite sat upon a throne Of gold, encrusted with a sapphire stone, And round the monarch stood, in triple rank, Three hundred ruddy pages, like a bank Of roses all a-blow, Two gentle boys, with blue eyes clear as glass, And locks as light as tufted cotton grass, And faces as the snow That lies on Ararat, and flushes pink On summer evenings, as the sun doth sink, Were stationed by the royal golden chair With fillets of carnation in their hair, And clothed in silken vesture, candid, clean, To flutter fans of burnished blue and green, Fashioned of peacock’s plume. A little lower, on a second stage On either side, was placed a graceful page, To raise a fragrant fume-- With costly woods and gums on burning coals That glowed on tripods, in bright silver bowls; And at the basement of the marble stair, Sweet singing choirs and harping minstrels were, In amber kirtles purple gilt and sashed. The throbbing strings in silver ripples flashed, Where slaves the choral song Accompanied with psaltery and lyre, In red and saffron, like to men of fire, Whilst hoarsely boomed the gong: Or silver cymbals clashed, or, waxing shrill, Danced up the scale a flute’s melodious thrill.