“I will arise,” I cried, like him of yore, “The conscience-stricken prodigal, and lay Myself, as in the dust, his face before, And, ‘I have sinned, my brother!’ I will say-- ‘Forgive, forgive!’ The clouds shall pass away, And I will banquet on his love; and rest My weary soul on his sustaining breast!” I gathered up my strength; I asked of none Council or aid; I crossed the desert sea; The purpose of my soul, to all unknown, Was yet supporting energy to me. I was like one from cruel bonds set free, Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not The all-sufficing gladness of his lot. Through the great cities of the East I passed Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme; I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast As the creation of a poet’s dream:-- My strength gave way, how little did I seem! I felt like Joseph’s brethren, mean and base, I turned aside and dared not meet his face. Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees; A place, as if for mourning spirits made; Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease, And weep unseen within the secret shade,-- A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed! Oh let me weep! you will not say that tears Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years. There was a tomb; a tomb as of a king; A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead. My heart died in me, like the failing wing Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read My brother’s name! Feeling and memory fled; The flood-gates of my misery gave way, And senseless on the marble floor I lay. I lay for hours; and when my sense returned The day was o’er; no moon was in the sky, But the thick-strewn, eternal planets burned In their celestial beauty steadfastly;-- It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye Looking upon my sorrow;--thus I deemed, And sate within the tomb till morning beamed. --For this I crossed the sea; in those far wilds, Through perils numberless, for this I went! What followed next I tell not; as a child’s Again my soul was feeble; too much spent To suffer as of old, or to lament, I came back to the scenes where life began, By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man. I murmur not; but with submissive will Resign to woe the evening of my day; On the great morrow love will have its fill; God will forgive our poor repentant clay, Nor thrust us from his paradise away! But brethren, be ye warned! Oh do not sever Your kindred hearts, which should be linked For ever! THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW.