"My God, my God, Thou hast not forsaken me!" * * * * * THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833) Once a strange old man went singing, Words of scornful admonition To the streets and markets bringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Slowly, slowly seek your mission; Naught in haste, or rash endeavor-- From the work yet ceasing never Slow and sure the hour draws nigh! Time's great branches cease from shaking; Blind are ye, devoid of reason, If its fruit ye would be taking When its blossoms have but burst. Let it ripen to its season, Wind within its branches bluster-- Of itself the fruits 'twill muster For whose juices ripe ye thirst." Wild, excited crowds are scorning In their guise the gray old singer, Thus reward him for his warning, Ape his songs in mockery: "Shall we let the fellow linger To disgrace us? Stone him, beat him, With the scorn he merits treat him-- Let the world his folly see!" So the strange old man went singing, To the halls of royal splendor Scornful admonition bringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Doubt not, dream not of surrender: Forward, forward, never ceasing, Strength in spite of all increasing-- Slow and sure the hour draws nigh! With the stream, before the breezes Wouldst thou show thy strength, then teach it Both to conquer as it pleases-- Both are weaker than the grave. Choose thy port, and steer to reach it! Threatening rocks? The rudder's master; Turning back is sure disaster, And its end beneath the wave." One was seen to blench in terror, Flushing first, then sudden paling: "Who gave entrance--whose the error Let this madman pass along? All things show his wits are failing-- Shall he daze our people's senses? Prison him with sure defenses, Silence hold his silly song!" But the strange old man went singing Where within the tower they bound him-- Calm and clear his answer ringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Though the people's hate surround him, Must the prophet still endeavor, From his mission ceasing never-- Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!" * * * * * THE OLD WASHERWOMAN[43] (1833) Among yon lines her hands have laden, A laundress with white hair appears, Alert as many a youthful maiden, Spite of her five-and-seventy years. Bravely she won those white hairs, still Eating the bread hard toil obtain'd her, And laboring truly to fulfil The duties to which God ordain'd her. Once she was young and full of gladness; She loved and hoped, was woo'd and won; Then came the matron's cares, the sadness No loving heart on earth may shun. Three babes she bore her mate; she pray'd Beside his sick-bed; he was taken; She saw him in the churchyard laid, Yet kept her faith and hope unshaken.