Echoes from Galilee.

What means this gathering multitude,
    Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,
As various as the billows rude
    That sweep thy ever restless sea?
        Can but the mandate of a King
        So varied an assemblage bring?

Behold the noble, rich, and great,
    From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,
Down to the lowest dregs of fate,
    From mightiest even to the least;
        Yes, in this motley throng we find
        The palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.

Is this some grand affair of state,
    A coronation, or display,
By some vainglorious potentate,--
    Or can this concourse mark the day
        Of some victorious hero's march
        Homeward, through triumphal arch?

Or, have they come to celebrate
    Some sacred sacerdotal rite;
By civic feast, to emulate
Some deed, on history's pages bright?
        Or can this grand occasion be
        Some battle's anniversary?

But wherefore come the halt and blind?
    What comfort can the pain-distressed
In such a tumult hope to find?
    What is there here, to offer rest
        To those, whom adverse fate has hurled,
        Dismantled, on a hostile world?

Let us approach! A form we see,
    Fairest beyond comparison;
For such an heavenly purity,
    From other eyes, hath never shown;
        Nor such a calm, majestic brow
        On earth hath ne'er appeared, till now.

Draw nearer. Lo! a voice we hear,
    Resonant, soft, pathetic, sweet;
In ringing accents, calm and clear,
    He sways the thousands at his feet,
        With more than mortal eloquence,
        Or man's compassion, in his glance.

Ah! Strange, that such a form should stand
    In raiment soiled, and travel stained;
Yes, mark the contour of that hand,
    A hand by menial toil profaned.
Can one from such a station reach
        All classes by sheer force of speech?

Can eloquence from mortal tongue
    Break through the barriers, which divide
The toiling and down-trodden throng
    From affluence, and official pride?
        Then how can yonder speaker hold
        An audience so manifold?

He spake as never orator
    Before, or since, with burning thought,
In parable, and metaphor;
    Each simple illustration taught
        Some sacred truth, some truth which could
        By sage, or fool, be understood.

With similes of common things,
    The lilies of the field, the salt
Which lost its savour; gently brings
    A lesson, from the common fault
        Of self-admiring Pharisee,
        Of ostentatious piety.

And from the prostrate penitent,
    The Publican, who beat his breast,
Remorsefully his garment rent,
    And thus, with tears, his sin confessed;
"Lord, Lord, a sinner vile am I,
        Be merciful, and hear my cry!"

And from that man, beset by thieves,
    And left upon the road, to die;
No aid or comfort he receives
    From Priest, or Levite, passing by;
        How the despised Samaritan
        Proved the true neighbor to that man.

Yes, finished with such fervency
    Of gesture, and similitude;
Such depths of love, and purity
    His hearers marvelled, as they stood;
        Nor through his discourse, was there heard,
        Abusive, vain, or idle word.

Who may this wondrous speaker be?
    Is he some judge, or orator?
Some one in high authority?
    Physician, prince, or conqueror?
        Answer, thou ever restless sea,
        Who may this wondrous person be?

With echoes soft, the sea replies,
    This is a Judge, and Orator;
A Judge, beyond all judges wise,
    And eloquent, as none before;
A Judge, majestic, calm, serene;
        And yet, an humble Nazarene.

He is a Ruler, whose command
    The myriads of the skies obey,
As in the hollow of His hand
    He holds all human destiny.
        The tempest wild concedes his will,
        And calms before His "Peace, be still."

A great Physician, too, is He,
    Whose word, the leper purifies;
The mute converse, the blind ones see;
    At his command, the dead arise;
        He cures the ravages of sin,
        And makes the foulest sinner clean.

He is a Prince, a Prince whose power
    Knows neither limit nor degree,
Whose glory, not the passing hour,
    Nor cycles of futurity,
        Can augment, alter, or decrease--
        Prince is He, the Prince of Peace.

He is earth's greatest Conqueror,
    But conquers not with crimson sword;
Love is the weapon of His war,
    Forgiveness, and gentle word;
        But, greatest of all victories,
        O'er the dark grave, His banner flies.