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"Is that all they come with?" The answer was "No! With cordage of steel they have bound The fair form of Freedom, and with a dread blow ’T is stretched at thy feet on the ground!”
“What more do they offer? my worshippers bold; What sacrifice sacred beside ?"
"Wealth! wealth!" was the answer,
"A river of
A right royal, high-rolling tide!" ""T is well! and what else do the devotees bring?"
The answer was, "Fortune the fair!
And Hope for the future—a joy-jewelled thing,
“What more do the worshippers offer—what more?" "Their Happiness!" was the reply;
“And never, thou war-god, O, never before,
And Pride, from the red reeking gaps of the dead,
Still the war-god saith to his servant, Pride;
So Pride and Ambition compel them to come ;—
With blast of the trumpet and roll of the drum,
It was thus that one of the bright band sung,
But the light went down and a darkness hung
And the angel of pity peer'd over the steep,
But tell us, Where lingered the beautiful band—
And tell us the name of the favour'd land,
The spot where they linger'd, in fair array,
The people with whom they prefer to stay,
But the angel of pity, who over the steep
With his harp beside him, could only weep,
Yet they who had come from the shining spheres,—
The sun had gone down as one goeth to rest,
And the wind was held as one holds his breath,
As perfect the peace as the silence of death,
But who are the shining ones, sweetly fair,
That brightly the night illumes ?
And there they listened—that angel band-
They heard-from many a shining sphere,—
The circle of young and fair,
A song celestial, sweetly clear,
In the truth-illumin'd air.
O who could have dream'd in the days long past,
And after wide wandering, would at the last,
Here settle in singing-at home!
Yet the band of bright spirits that round the world
Their plumes in the land of their choice have furl'd,
THE BIRD-NEST IN THE LING.
FORSAKEN and alone it lies
Forsaken in the snows;
Above it coldly bend the skies,
Storm wildly round it blows;
A safely-sheltered thing,
And sweet bloom fringed the fair retreat-
What hour, aforetime, met the morn,
For wind and rain to hill and plain,
But joy will visit yet again
The bird-nest in the ling.
O heart, that like the bird-nest lone,
And hearest but the tempest tone
THE BURDEN IN THE BREAST.
WHO bears his burden on his back,
Will surely weary grow,
O'er houseless hills of snow;
Are lost in lightsome rest ;-
Who on his shoulder lays his load,
The same betimes may shift; Or find a friend along the road To aid him with a lift;
པའི ཀྱག ་་་་་་ ་་དེར་ཀུན