FEAST.
93
"OLD LAMPS FOR NEW."
SOUL! wert thou a poor maid-servant, weakAnd foolish, and unknowing how the walls
Of shining stones and silver, and fine gold,
Which made our dwelling glorious, our life
Assured, were built, that thou must spring at call
Of our most deadly foe, lured by the sound
And glitter of his hollow brass, and give
Into his treacherous hands our all?
And now
For thee and me remaineth nothing more,
But cold and hunger and the desert!
Soul,
Rise up and follow him, and tarry not,
Nor dare to call thy life thine own, until
Thou hast waylaid him sitting at his feast,
And torn our talisman from off his breast!
FEAST.
OR days when guests unbiddenWalk in my sun,
With steps that roam unchidden,
And overrun
My vines and flowers, and hands
That rob on all my lands,—
For such days, still there stands
One banquet, one!
