The younger to the elder now had come, A thought to purpose quickening in his breast. He too was Hebrew patriot, and he yearned With anguish like his master's, yet at once Sharper than his, and more accessible To hope, as well his livelier youth became And native blood more nimble in his veins-- Saul also, with Gamaliel, yearned and burned, Beholding prone his country in the dust, Under the grinding heel of Roman power-- And Messianic glory turned to shame! Saul's first wish was to bring his brethren back Stung to their pristine, proud, prophetic hope Of a Messiah born to regal robes, Swaying a sceptre, seated on a throne, Crowned with a crown of myriad diadems, Symbol of lordship that should myriad tribes Mass in one mighty empire of mankind. He felt the soul of eloquence astir Within him, and he longed to be at war, In words that flamed like lightning and that smote Like thunder-stones, against those grovelling men Who Israel taught to grovel at the feet Of Galilæan Jesus crucified, Accepted for the Christ, forsooth, of God! Such wish, becoming purpose, Saul has brought This evening to Gamaliel, with high hope, Hope high, but vain, to disappointment doomed, Of grateful gratulant words to hearten him, Approving and applauding his desire, Won from the wisest in Jerusalem. Thus minded, Saul, blithe, eager, sanguine, bold, With yet a grace of filial in his mien, As toward a master had in love and fear, Said: "Teacher, what I came to learn from thee, Already, having marked thy prayer, I know. God hear thee out of Zion in thy prayer! God bring to naught the counsels of His foes! Now know I, and rejoice to know, that thou, My teacher in the blessed law, wilt say, 'God speed thee, son,' in what I seek to do. For, lo, I seek to serve the suffering cause Of truth wounded and bleeding in the street. Love of my country burns me as with flame Imprisoned and living in my very bones-- My country, and my countrymen. This land To me is lovely like a bride beloved-- Beloved the more, unutterably wronged! Her trodden dust is dear to me. Not I, As do my brethren on her bosom born, Equably love her with composed and calm Affection sweet. That homesick longing bred With boyhood in Cilicia haunts me yet, To heighten love with anguish, and more dear Make the dear soil of this my fatherland. A passion, not a fondness, is my love; And for my countrymen to die, were sweet-- Such blind abandonment of love usurps My being for my kinsmen in the flesh. Would God I might in very deed pour out This blood, no vain oblation, to redeem My bondmen brethren and to purge this land!"