What burst of Christian hate,
What persecution, merciless and blind
Drove o'er the sea - that desert desolate -
These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?
Pride and humiliation hand in hand
Walked with them through the world where'er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
And yet unshaken as the continent.
For in the background figures vague and vast
Of patriarchs and prophets rose sublime,
And all the great traditions of the Past
Then saw reflected in the coming Time.
And then forever with reverted look
The mystic volume of the world they read,
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,
Till life became a Legend of the Dead.
But ah! What once has been shall be no more!
The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
And the dead nations never rise again!
Leaving this quiet abode of the dead we were surprised to find
multitudes of people strolling about the town. Of all that
motley throng we met with no one save a solitary fisher out on
the rocks, from which such glorious vistas of the sea may be
had. Then we recalled how few there were who witnessed the
wonderful pageant of the dawn. Surely influences of nature so
beautiful and profound should touch our feeble hopes and lowly
aspirations with new life, inspiring grander visions.
