By John William De Forest
“come quickly!” Wept the dying Grace;
“Abide with me my Pator,
then I might finish well the race,
And mount and fly the faster;
Then might I suffer the makers face
And kiss the feet of the master.”
But far away the forest rocked
With storms from first dominions;
The witches skirred, the wizard flocked,
The air was thick with pinions;
And there the ministers dance and mocked
With Satan’s sootiest minions.
He mocked and danced in priestly black;
No warlock matched his leaping.
Apollyon clapped his portly back
And laughed almost to weeping;
And the person skipped like a jumping jack
To think his Deacons were sleeping.
But high above the mongrel herd,
Above the maddened Endor,
The mighty, shinning cohorts gird
A throne of awful splendor,
And a Seraph sternly writes a word.
No language of earth can render