The Comforter

" O SWEETLY timed, as e'er was gentle hand
Of mother press'd on weeping infant's brow,
Is every sign that to His fallen land
Th' Almighty sends by prophet mourners now
The glory from the ark is gone, —
The mystic cuirass gleams no more,
In answer from the Holy One, —
Low lies the temple, wondrous store
Of mercies seal'd with blood each eve and morn;
Yet Heaven hath tokens for faith's eye forlorn.

" Heaven by my mouth was fain to stay
The pride that, in our evil day,
Would fain have struggled in Chaldea's chain:
Nay kiss the rod: th' Avenger needs must reign:
And now, though every shrine is still,
Speaks out by me the unchanging Will;
" Seek not to Egypt; there the curse will come;
But, till the woe be past, round Canaan roam,
And meekly 'bide your hour beside your ruin'd home." "
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