The Judgement of the Flood by John A. Heraud. A New Edition. Revised and Re-Arranged |
 |
|
 | I. |
| II. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
 | The Judgement of the Flood |  |
Thus moralized the friendly pair: then home,
By the moon's light, returned; for now the stars
With chilling influence smote. When Hori next
The Vale of righteous Abel visited,
He was alone, and summer had restored
The grave-flowers all their bloom, a beauteous shew:
But not to Hori beauteous; for his heart
Was broken with affliction. Vain all signs
Unto the Cainite; still, with mortal rage,
He followed up his victory, and claimed,
From their retreats, the captives as his slaves.
And Hori thus was seized, and to the will
Of tyrant was subdued. His free-born soul
Revolted, and then drooped, deprived of life,
Of moral life, and motive power of act;
To every influence of joy, and pain,
As bards are ever, all too sensitive.
Thus, in the morning, odours from afar
Attract the Bee, and, in the eve, or ere
The storm come on, the absence of the sun
Chills back the busy creature to her hive—
Like her, much store of honey, and of wax
He gathered, and laid up on his return . .
A mental treasure. Now his work is wrought.
So the poor Bee, of her antennæ shorn,
The instruments, with which she once received
Effluvial motion, broken, and destroyed;
The spell of her activity is dead,
Contrivance, wisdom, ingenuity—
Stupid, and helpless; torpid, and effete;
Order, subordination, loyalty,
Thrift, occupation, all are over now,
Wanderer forlorn, and isolate, and dull:
Such Hori was; and, in the populous world
A stranger grown, he had no interest there.
By the moon's light, returned; for now the stars
With chilling influence smote. When Hori next
167
He was alone, and summer had restored
The grave-flowers all their bloom, a beauteous shew:
But not to Hori beauteous; for his heart
Was broken with affliction. Vain all signs
Unto the Cainite; still, with mortal rage,
He followed up his victory, and claimed,
From their retreats, the captives as his slaves.
And Hori thus was seized, and to the will
Of tyrant was subdued. His free-born soul
Revolted, and then drooped, deprived of life,
Of moral life, and motive power of act;
To every influence of joy, and pain,
As bards are ever, all too sensitive.
Thus, in the morning, odours from afar
Attract the Bee, and, in the eve, or ere
The storm come on, the absence of the sun
Chills back the busy creature to her hive—
Like her, much store of honey, and of wax
He gathered, and laid up on his return . .
A mental treasure. Now his work is wrought.
So the poor Bee, of her antennæ shorn,
The instruments, with which she once received
Effluvial motion, broken, and destroyed;
The spell of her activity is dead,
Contrivance, wisdom, ingenuity—
Stupid, and helpless; torpid, and effete;
Order, subordination, loyalty,
Thrift, occupation, all are over now,
Wanderer forlorn, and isolate, and dull:
Such Hori was; and, in the populous world
A stranger grown, he had no interest there.
Scaped from despotic vigilance, he came,
One summer's day, into the Vale of Death;
And laid him down upon a sunny bank,
And looked into the heaven's unclouded blue,
As his blue eye might blend therein, or that
Melt down into his visionary soul.
Thus he, in silence, and in solitude,
Gazing reposed; nor moved, when night came on,
Nor when the day returned; and, day by day,
And night by night, unmindful of the claims
Of hunger or of thirst, into the face
Of daylit sky or starry, upward still
Looked patient, like a prisoner supine,
Chained to a hill side, doomed to lonely death.
—By chance, Zateel there wandered; led, one eve,
By tender memory, to the sacred spot;
And there beheld him in the loveliness,
And resignation of his lifeless brow.
High meditation in the glazèd eye,
His gifted vision read; and then, aloud,
He prayed the Shepherd, by the flocks he knew,
The pastures, and the rivers that he loved,
The green hills, and the quiet of the heavens,
To wake from that deep sleep. Soon, on his soul
Came twilight, and a haunted gloominess;
And murmurs, and dim sounds of shrieks, and sighs;
And shapes, as in a dream, were struggling there,
Pale even to polished whiteness, terrible.
—Was it a dream? Lo, on the outlined air,
Michael appeared; and, with angelic hand,
Blessed the belovèd Dead on whom he gazed.
One summer's day, into the Vale of Death;
And laid him down upon a sunny bank,
And looked into the heaven's unclouded blue,
168
Melt down into his visionary soul.
Thus he, in silence, and in solitude,
Gazing reposed; nor moved, when night came on,
Nor when the day returned; and, day by day,
And night by night, unmindful of the claims
Of hunger or of thirst, into the face
Of daylit sky or starry, upward still
Looked patient, like a prisoner supine,
Chained to a hill side, doomed to lonely death.
—By chance, Zateel there wandered; led, one eve,
By tender memory, to the sacred spot;
And there beheld him in the loveliness,
And resignation of his lifeless brow.
High meditation in the glazèd eye,
His gifted vision read; and then, aloud,
He prayed the Shepherd, by the flocks he knew,
The pastures, and the rivers that he loved,
The green hills, and the quiet of the heavens,
To wake from that deep sleep. Soon, on his soul
Came twilight, and a haunted gloominess;
And murmurs, and dim sounds of shrieks, and sighs;
And shapes, as in a dream, were struggling there,
Pale even to polished whiteness, terrible.
—Was it a dream? Lo, on the outlined air,
Michael appeared; and, with angelic hand,
Blessed the belovèd Dead on whom he gazed.
‘Thrice blessèd be the sufferer, set now
From the oppressor free.’
From the oppressor free.’
Thus Michael said.
But then, as with strange power, permitted him
Since that disastrous night, Azaziel smote
The extended benediction, and uptowered,
With all a victor's insolence, above
The Seraph of the sky.
But then, as with strange power, permitted him
Since that disastrous night, Azaziel smote
The extended benediction, and uptowered,
With all a victor's insolence, above
The Seraph of the sky.
‘Bless not whom God
Hath cursed; whom, for the guilty, he hath made
A curse. Curse whom he dooms—the innocent,
Successive victims to atone his wrath,
Until One die for All.’
169
A curse. Curse whom he dooms—the innocent,
Successive victims to atone his wrath,
Until One die for All.’
This to his knee
Brought down the faithful Guardian. Not to him,
But to his God he prayed; and short is now
The demon's triumph. Fallen on earth's face,
Elihu's presence he confessed; who thus,
As on a cloud supported, eloquent,
Bent the right hand of his extended arm
In action of command; and, with the left,
Appointed him his place of prostrate shame.
‘From Abel's blood to that last Sacrifice,’
Exclaimed he, ‘Man must answer. God demands
No victims to his wrath; but man doth make
His prophets martyrs, sent in love to man,
That he might hear, and live.’
Brought down the faithful Guardian. Not to him,
But to his God he prayed; and short is now
The demon's triumph. Fallen on earth's face,
Elihu's presence he confessed; who thus,
As on a cloud supported, eloquent,
Bent the right hand of his extended arm
In action of command; and, with the left,
Appointed him his place of prostrate shame.
‘From Abel's blood to that last Sacrifice,’
Exclaimed he, ‘Man must answer. God demands
No victims to his wrath; but man doth make
His prophets martyrs, sent in love to man,
That he might hear, and live.’
This heard Zateel—
On one knee kneeling, one hand on his heart,
One high in air; thus, with the gaze he looked
Of him who sees a vision, wonder-rapt,
Entranced in ecstasy, possessed, inspired.
On one knee kneeling, one hand on his heart,
One high in air; thus, with the gaze he looked
Of him who sees a vision, wonder-rapt,
Entranced in ecstasy, possessed, inspired.
| The Judgement of the Flood | |