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[119] O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;
     O painter! true thy pencil's art;
In tones of hope and prophecy,
     Ye whisper to my listening heart!

Unheard no burdened heart's appeal
     Moans up to God's inclining ear;
Unheeded by his tender eye,
     Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear.

For still the Lord alone is God!
     The pomp and power of tyrant man
Are scattered at his lightest breath,
     Like chaff before the winnower's fan.

Not always shall the slave uplift
     His heavy hands to Heaven in vain.
God's angel, like the good St. Mark,
     Comes shining down to break his chain!

O weary ones! ye may not see
     Your helpers in their downward flight;
Nor hear the sound of silver wings
     Slow beating through the hush of night!

But not the less gray Dothan shone,
     With sunbright watchers bending low,
That Fear's dim eye beheld alone
     The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.

There are, who, like the Seer of old,
     Can see the helpers God has sent,
And how life's rugged mountain-side
     Is white with many an angel tent!

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Dothan (Vermont, United States) (1)

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