 | Væ VOBIS.[1]
[1]“Woe unto you.”
Water-drops |  |
8. Væ VOBIS.[1]
“Væ Vobis!” ye whose lip doth lave
Too freely in the sparkling wine,
Regardless, though that passion-wave
Blot from your soul Heaven's light divine:
“Væ Vobis!” heed the warning cry,
Fly! ere the leprous taint is deep;
Fly! ere the hour of doom is nigh,
And pitying angels cease to weep.
Væ Vobis!” ye who fail to read
His Name, that shines where'er ye tread,
The Alpha of our infant creed,
The Omega of the sainted dead:
It glows where'er the pencill'd flowers
Their tablet to the desert show,
Where'er the mountain's rocky towers
In shadow wrap the vales below.
Where roll the starry worlds on high,
In glorious order, strong and fair;—
Too freely in the sparkling wine,
Regardless, though that passion-wave
Blot from your soul Heaven's light divine:
“Væ Vobis!” heed the warning cry,
Fly! ere the leprous taint is deep;
Fly! ere the hour of doom is nigh,
And pitying angels cease to weep.
Væ Vobis!” ye who fail to read
His Name, that shines where'er ye tread,
The Alpha of our infant creed,
The Omega of the sainted dead:
It glows where'er the pencill'd flowers
Their tablet to the desert show,
Where'er the mountain's rocky towers
In shadow wrap the vales below.
Where roll the starry worlds on high,
In glorious order, strong and fair;—
43
In each red letter on the sky
The Comet writes, 'tis there! 'tis there!—
'Tis graved on Ocean's furrowed brow,
On every shell that tints the shore,
And where the solemn forests bow,
“Væ Vobis!” ye who scorn the lore.
“Væ Vobis!” all who trust in earth,
Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast,
Who drain the foaming cup of mirth,
Or seek ambition's storm-wreath'd crest,—
Who early rise, and late take rest,
In Mammon's mine the careworn slave,—
Who find each phantom-race unblest,
Yet shrink reluctant from the grave.
The Comet writes, 'tis there! 'tis there!—
'Tis graved on Ocean's furrowed brow,
On every shell that tints the shore,
And where the solemn forests bow,
“Væ Vobis!” ye who scorn the lore.
“Væ Vobis!” all who trust in earth,
Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast,
Who drain the foaming cup of mirth,
Or seek ambition's storm-wreath'd crest,—
Who early rise, and late take rest,
In Mammon's mine the careworn slave,—
Who find each phantom-race unblest,
Yet shrink reluctant from the grave.
| Væ VOBIS.[1]
[1]“Woe unto you.”
Water-drops | |