  EASTER MORNHUSHED is the voice of scorn, Anew the world is born,— Sweet morn! sweet morn! Sing songs so loud and clear That all the world must hear Their notes of cheer. White angels of surprise Whisper from morning skies, Arise! Arise! 'Neath the lightning countenance Sleep men of sword and lance, In heavy trance. Broken the sceptic's seal, Backward the devils reel, The nations kneel. Christ bids the Old adieu, Christ lives the Ever-New, Faithful and True. Hushed is the voice of scorn, Anew the world is born,— Sweet morn! sweet morn! IN the silence of the morning, through the softly-rising mist, As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst, Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could not but list: "Unto thyself be true!" In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of voices loud, And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces thunder-browed, Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the crowd: "Be to thy brother true!" In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had sunk to rest, When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire within my breast, Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of Christ confessed: "Unto thy God be true!" |
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