Menella Bute Smedley


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Is it the foot of God
Upon the waters, that they seethe and blaze
As when of old He trod
The desert ways,
And through the night,
Fearful and far His pillar pour'd its light?
O! for strong wings to fly
Under the limit of yon dazzling verge,
Where bright tints rapidly
In brighter merge,
And yet more bright
Till light becomes invisible through light.
What wonder that of yore
Men held thee for a deity, great Sun,
Kindling thy pyre before
Thy race is run,
Casting life down
At pleasure, to resume it as a crown?

Or that our holier prayer
Still consecrates thy symbol? that our fanes
Plant their pure altars where
Thine eastern glory rains,
And thy bright west
Drops prophet-mantles on our beds of rest?
Here, watching, let us kneel
Through the still darkness of this grave-like time,
Till on our ears shall steal
A whisper, then a chime,
And then a chorus—Earth has burst her prison,
The Sign is in the skies,—the sun is risen!

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