Page:The Forest Sanctuary.pdf/33

Hear its voice, hear!—a cry goes up to thee,
From the stain'd sod;—make thou thy judgment known
On him, the shedder!—let his portion be
The fear that walks at midnight—give the moan
In the wind haunting him a power to say
"Where is thy brother?"—and the stars a ray
To search and shake his spirit, when alone
With the dread splendor of their burning eyes!

Sounds of triumphant praise!—the mass was sung—
—Voices that die not might have pour'd such strains!
Thro' Salem's towers might that proud chant have rung,
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains,
Had quell'd her foes!—so full it swept, a sea
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free!
—Oft when the wind, as thro' resounding fanes,
Hath fill'd the choral forests with its power,