He sleeps, but not forsaken, For the Judgment trump shall blow, Its blast of joy or woe. The nations of the dead shall rise And the Lion of the Vatican shall waken. Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken! With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes, The kingdoms gather round the great white throne To hear the final sentence Of all who seek or scorn repentance. Long ere the dreadful conflagration Which shall consume each nation, Along each height or hollow shore, Loud shall reverberate the roar Which made the iron Bismarck bow Before the Lion’s calm, majestic brow; Which bade the hostile cannon cease And harmless pave the paths of peace, Who walked where princely Virgil trod And then like Enoch walked with God. Be patient, then, O Zion! And wait the wakening of the Lion Be patient still, for soon Thy God shall grant the boon Of universal peace; And War’s red banner shall be furled Throughout all the world. Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe[C] was worth The ransom of a hundred kings; Yet diamonds and pearls and all The riches of this world have wings; The Lion held God’s treasure fast-- Honor and truth and Heaven at last. CHIABRERA’S EPITAPH. Chiabrera, an Italian poet, is said to have written the following inscription for his tomb: “Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus; Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.” The setting sun shone down the Apennines, Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines, And his dark collonades of whispering pines. The tinkling bells of the returning flocks Rang through the lengthening shadows of the rocks And grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks. The Star of Evening trembled in the West, Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast, And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest. Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay, Life’s waning lights across his features play Like the last beams of yon declining day. And as departing day its glory shed Bright on the group which gathered round his bed, In faltering words the dying poet said: “Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death, Upon my brow I feel their icy breath-- And the bright star of song forsakes my path. “No more Apollo’s mount shall I behold-- The rainbow mist that round its summit rolled Fades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold. “The groves are withered on Parnassus’ side; The fields are dead--the streams no longer glide, And every fount by fiery heat is dried. “All dumb and shattered lies Apollo’s shell, Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well, Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell. “Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rock Oh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flock Shield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;