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Whom commendest thou to us as shepherd to thy bereaven flock? whom shall we admonish to tread in those traces thy footsteps leave below?" The King made a slight gesture of impatience; and the Queen, forgetful of all but her womanly sorrow, raised her eye and finger in reproof that the dying was thus disturbed.
At length his soul being vex'd exceedingly, By reason of her importunity: He told the secrets of his heart, and said, Never yet razor on my head was laid; For I have been to God a Nazarite, Even from the day that first I saw the light: Wherefore like other men, if I am shaven, I shall be weak, and of my strength bereaven.
God grant some good may come of my millions after I am dead! After I am dead! How strange it sounds! What will it seem like, I wonder, to be dead?" And he suddenly thought of a poem he had read some years back, one of the finest and most daring thoughts ever expressed in verse, from the pen of a fine and much neglected poet, Robert Buchanan: "Master, if there be Doom, All men are bereaven!
Whom commendest thou to us as shepherd to thy bereaven flock? whom shall we admonish to tread in those traces thy footsteps leave below?" The King made a slight gesture of impatience; and the Queen, forgetful of all but her womanly sorrow, raised her eye and finger in reproof that the dying was thus disturbed.
But thou, when thou dost fast, anoint thine head And wash thy face, that undiscovered Thy fasting may be unto men, but rather That thou be seen in secret of thy Father: And then thy Father, who in secrecy Beholds thee, shall reward thee openly. Lay not up treasure for yourselves in store Upon the earth, where moth and rust devour, And where by thieves you may be quite bereaven.
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