 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
LUCIFER.
Usurper of the throne of God,
From heaven's high battlement cast down,
What spot of earth hast thou not trod,
Wearing rebellion as a crown?
From heaven's high battlement cast down,
What spot of earth hast thou not trod,
Wearing rebellion as a crown?
Like some bright meteor of the air
Streams o'er the world thy robe of flame;
Ruined, fallen, yet as angel fair,
I breathe my curses on thy name!
Streams o'er the world thy robe of flame;
Ruined, fallen, yet as angel fair,
I breathe my curses on thy name!
The broad road going down to death,
What thousands but for thee would quit,
And climb to the green hills of faith,
From the black ashes of the pit.
What thousands but for thee would quit,
And climb to the green hills of faith,
From the black ashes of the pit.
Once, when through Mercy's gates ajar,
I heard salvation's anthem flow,
Thy fire-wing led me, like a star,
Back to the wretched gates of woe!
I heard salvation's anthem flow,
Thy fire-wing led me, like a star,
Back to the wretched gates of woe!
O, Holy Spirit, cease to grieve
That slighted offer of thy grace;
My heart is breaking to receive
The beauty of thy sweet embrace.
That slighted offer of thy grace;
My heart is breaking to receive
The beauty of thy sweet embrace.
I cannot, will not let thee go,
Has been my cry—nor shall it cease,
Till the wild billows of my woe
Shall bear me to the shore of peace.
Has been my cry—nor shall it cease,
Till the wild billows of my woe
Shall bear me to the shore of peace.
Go lay thy forehead in hell's coals,
Proud scorner of the bended knee,
For broken faith and perjured souls
Charged all their awful guilt to thee.
Proud scorner of the bended knee,
For broken faith and perjured souls
Charged all their awful guilt to thee.
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And when at last the quick and dead
Are summoned to the judgment bar,
If there shall be a crime more dread
Than all the rest, to answer for—
Are summoned to the judgment bar,
If there shall be a crime more dread
Than all the rest, to answer for—
Thine is it; for no evil hand,
Save that which opened first the grave,
Could ever sink the accursed brand
In the crouched shoulder of the slave.
Save that which opened first the grave,
Could ever sink the accursed brand
In the crouched shoulder of the slave.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |