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SONNETS.
MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL.
A Statuette.
I.
Y white archangel, with thy steadfast eyesBeholding all this empty ghost-filled room,
Thy clasped hands resting on the sword of doom,
Thy firm, close lips, not made for human sighs
Or smiles, or kisses sweet, or bitter cries,
But for divine exhorting, holy song
And righteous counsel, bold from seraph tongue.
Beautiful angel, strong as thou art wise,
"Would that the sight of thee made wise and strong!
Would that this sheathed sword of thine, which lies
Stonily idle, could gleam out among
The spiritual hosts of enemies
That tempting shriek—"Requite thou wrong with wrong.'
Lama Sabachthani,—How long, how long.
