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This was the voice of a woman, not
of a girl; and it was with the proud passion of a woman that she seemed
to send this cry to Heaven for reparation, and justice, and revenge. And
surely it was not only of the sorrows of the land of Judah she was
thinking!--it was a wider cry--the cry of the oppressed, and the
suffering, and the heart-broken in every clime--
"O blest native land! O fatherland mine!
How long for thy refuge in vain shall I pine?"
He could have believed there were tears in her eyes just then; but there
were none, he knew, when she came to the fierce piteous appeal that
followed--
"Where, where are thy proud sons, so lordly in might?
All mown down and fallen in blood-welling fight!
Thy cities are ruin, thy valleys lie waste,
Their summer enchantment the foe hath erased.
O blest native land! how long shalt decline?
When, when will the Lord cry, 'Revenge, it is Mine!'"
The zither speaks; but there is a speech beyond that of the zither. The
penetrating vibration of this rich and pathetic voice was a thing not
easily to be forgotten.


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