ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.
High thy head, tho' maimed and broken, Towers o'er other sons of clay; Mammoth-like-a living token,
Of a race now swept away! Why-when rays of morn illume Rich the orient monarchs' tomb, Yielded to thy hallowed trustLiest thou grovelling in the dust?
Came no hand of succour near thee,
As thou leanedst upon thy throne;
Would no arm arise to rear thee,
Not an eye thy sorrows own ?
Ah! each morn the sun in vain,
Lights from far the peopled plain;
Every eye to thee may turn,
Not a tear for thee will mourn!
In thy breast the Magi slumber,
And thou guard'st the sacred shrine; And to greet thee, without number, Pilgrims haste with many a sign: Then, since far and wide thy name Bears its honours-plead thy claim; As the tower its shadow flings, Point the merits of thy kings!
Thou hast claim on Gentile nations,
For thou wentst at break of day;
Bearing glad the earth's oblations,
Where the God of nations lay!
Hadst thou not, while Jews adored,
Wealth into His bosom poured,
They had never owned their king!
Will they now no succour bring?
Thou hast claim from the throne's splendour,
Boundless wealth, and pomp, and pride;
Lo! for kings thou kneel'd'st to render
Guerdon at the manger's side!
Well they paid, beneath thy wings,
Honour to the King of kings,
Bowed their thrones before heav'n's throne!
Is there none the debt to own?
Thou hast claim from wisdom's bowers,
For thine hand her offerings spread,
Sparkling gems and wreathed flowers,
Wrought to grace the Saviour's head!
Meet it was that wisdom came,
Casting down her rolls of fame,
Where the Lord of wisdom lay-
Will she now no homage pay?
Ah! 'tis as an idle story
Sages gaze with aspect cold;
Kings are caught with earthly glory,
And the rich with earthly gold:
Arch and column, far and wide,
Rise to grace the sons of pride,
Answering to the calls of Fame—
But who owns thy nobler claim?
Lo! the west its mail-clad legions
Summons, and speeds reckless on!
Turn thee to the eastern regions,
Where the star of Bethlehem shone !
Tell them of our sin and shame;
We, who guard the Magi's fame,
Care not, 'mid our corn and wine,
To uprear their grovelling shrine !
But in vain-thy plaint resounding
Dies away on desert-sands;
Baal's hosts, the cross surrounding,
Guard the ark with blood-stain'd hands.
What reck they for thy renown,
Smiling scorn beneath their frown;
Christ the orient clime hath fled,
And no Eden rears its head!
Then awake the dreaming sages,
Knocking at the iron tomb;
Tell them-'mid the sweep of ages,
None to yield their homage come!
Bid them give-and we will raise
High throned trophies to their praise;
Let them shell their fruits untold,
Myrrh, and frankincense, and gold!
Hush! a voice, 'mid arches hoary,
Rolls from the sepulchral stone :
When we sought the Lord of glory,
We but rendered Him His own!
Who are we to pluck the rays,
Which around the manger blaze?
We have stood-to yield his dower,
We have knelt-to own his power!
Ask ye-why the sun unfolding
Shines on ruins in their prime?
Ask ye-why the lands beholding
Weep o'er wrecks untouched by Time?
'Tis that all may see and live, God will not his glory give!
Not for Him ye wreathed the crown,
And it withers 'neath his frown!'
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