But, hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air.
From SYRIA'S thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers where he had laid his head.
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels[174] with his forehead to the south
Lisping the eternal name of God
From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies
Like a stray babe of Paradise
Just lighted on that flowery plain
And seeking for its home again.
Oh! 'twas a sight--that Heaven--that child--
A scene, which might have well beguiled
Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt _he_, the wretched Man
Reclining there--while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place.
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.
"There _was_ a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones--"thou blessed child!
"When young and haply pure as thou
"I looked and prayed like thee--but now"--
He hung his head--each nobler aim
And hope and feeling which had slept
From boyhood's hour that instant came
Fresh o'er him and he wept--he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
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