A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings Edited by Edward Harston |
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 | A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings |  |
I. PART I.
“And he said, ‘Wherefore wilt thou go to him to-day? It
is neither new moon nor Sabbath.’ And she said, ‘It shall
be well!’”—2 Kings, iv. 23.
“It shall be well!”
She sent and answer'd him —“It shall be well”—
E'en though her heart o'erfraught
With love and agony and burning thought,
With all a mother's bitter grief might swell,
She sent and answer'd him, “It shall be well!”
She sent and answer'd him —“It shall be well”—
E'en though her heart o'erfraught
With love and agony and burning thought,
With all a mother's bitter grief might swell,
She sent and answer'd him, “It shall be well!”
What could that message mean?
It did not tell how death had come between
Him and the joy of harvest; could there rest
Still in her heaving breast
Hope that the child would waken? that his head
Would turn upon the pillow of that bed—
When the light air came in, that he would sigh—
Feeling it lift his hair so wooingly?—
No! for she left him: for she left alone
The silent form, from which the life was flown:—
Who the deep workings of her soul may tell?
Mysterious words! she said, “It shall be well!”
It did not tell how death had come between
Him and the joy of harvest; could there rest
Still in her heaving breast
Hope that the child would waken? that his head
Would turn upon the pillow of that bed—
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Feeling it lift his hair so wooingly?—
No! for she left him: for she left alone
The silent form, from which the life was flown:—
Who the deep workings of her soul may tell?
Mysterious words! she said, “It shall be well!”
What shall be well?
His aged father's heart, when he shall call
For his sweet child? when turn'd at even-fall
To his own roof, from fields with harvest white,
No foot shall meet him in the soft dim light,
But he shall hear the mourning women's cry
Of death and desolation? and his eye
Shall fall upon the face for which they wail?
No! for it shall be pale!
What then? thy gentle heart, kind Shunamite?
No! for thy sole delight
Hath sobb'd himself to sleep upon thy breast,
His dreamless sleep. Then let him take his rest!
Long did thine arms in hope his limbs enfold,
But now they have grown cold!
His aged father's heart, when he shall call
For his sweet child? when turn'd at even-fall
To his own roof, from fields with harvest white,
No foot shall meet him in the soft dim light,
But he shall hear the mourning women's cry
Of death and desolation? and his eye
Shall fall upon the face for which they wail?
No! for it shall be pale!
What then? thy gentle heart, kind Shunamite?
No! for thy sole delight
Hath sobb'd himself to sleep upon thy breast,
His dreamless sleep. Then let him take his rest!
Long did thine arms in hope his limbs enfold,
But now they have grown cold!
Who sitteth in the mount apart? his gaze,
Dream-like, upon the far blue landscape stays—
Green slopes and harvest fields and pastures fair—
But his thoughts are not there!
Across the darken'd mirror of his soul
Thick mists obscuring roll:
And as, when Eli had laid down to sleep,
In midnight silence deep,
Before the ark the lamp of God burn'd dim
Shaded with golden wings of Cherubim—
So in the temple of his heart, though nigh
Might Angel-watchers in his pathway lie,
No gleams of light with radiance pure and sweet
Reveal'd the brightness of the Mercy-seat:
As in the hour of midnight gloom, with him
The lamp of God burn'd dim!
Dream-like, upon the far blue landscape stays—
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But his thoughts are not there!
Across the darken'd mirror of his soul
Thick mists obscuring roll:
And as, when Eli had laid down to sleep,
In midnight silence deep,
Before the ark the lamp of God burn'd dim
Shaded with golden wings of Cherubim—
So in the temple of his heart, though nigh
Might Angel-watchers in his pathway lie,
No gleams of light with radiance pure and sweet
Reveal'd the brightness of the Mercy-seat:
As in the hour of midnight gloom, with him
The lamp of God burn'd dim!
Haply prophetic visions, indistinct
With wailing voices sounds of trouble link'd—
Haply a shadowing forth of wasting years,
Captivity and tears,
To come upon his nation, or yet more,
It might be that before
His inward sense the “Man of Sorrows” rose,
And to him wond'ring did the wounds disclose,
That pierc'd his hands and feet—his soul might see,
Shadows of that last night's deep agony;
Might see One lowly in the garden bend—
And words of wond'rous meaning might extend
To him that search'd what tidings these might bring,
Fore-runners of what pure and holy thing—
Yes! to his soul might reach that bitter cry—
“What, is it nothing, O ye passers by?”—
“Nothing to you these thorns?—This cursed tree?—
Behold—Behold and see
If there be any sorrow like to mine?—
Man's guilt and wrath Divine!”
With wailing voices sounds of trouble link'd—
Haply a shadowing forth of wasting years,
Captivity and tears,
To come upon his nation, or yet more,
It might be that before
His inward sense the “Man of Sorrows” rose,
And to him wond'ring did the wounds disclose,
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Shadows of that last night's deep agony;
Might see One lowly in the garden bend—
And words of wond'rous meaning might extend
To him that search'd what tidings these might bring,
Fore-runners of what pure and holy thing—
Yes! to his soul might reach that bitter cry—
“What, is it nothing, O ye passers by?”—
“Nothing to you these thorns?—This cursed tree?—
Behold—Behold and see
If there be any sorrow like to mine?—
Man's guilt and wrath Divine!”
Or haply on his burden'd soul might press
The world's dull cares—its wants, its weariness—
He hath no fellow—there are none to feel
Like woes with his, and by communion heal.
The idol-worshippers wax strong and bold,
And love hath long grown cold.
What wonder if his voice hath sorrow's tone?
He in the midst hath dwelt so long alone:
Or to his lips low pining words may come,
Looking and longing for his distant home!
The world's dull cares—its wants, its weariness—
He hath no fellow—there are none to feel
Like woes with his, and by communion heal.
The idol-worshippers wax strong and bold,
And love hath long grown cold.
What wonder if his voice hath sorrow's tone?
He in the midst hath dwelt so long alone:
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Looking and longing for his distant home!
“O that I had wings!
Then would I flee away and be at rest—
I would betake me to the utmost springs
That in the desert rise, and calm my breast
Beside their lonely waters; I should hear,
About their margins drear,
No hymns to Baal chanted, but above
The sky would smile upon me, and my soul
Freed from earth's strong control,
And thought that fondly clings
Around forbidden things,
Should find a purer outlet for her love—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
Then would I flee away and be at rest—
I would betake me to the utmost springs
That in the desert rise, and calm my breast
Beside their lonely waters; I should hear,
About their margins drear,
No hymns to Baal chanted, but above
The sky would smile upon me, and my soul
Freed from earth's strong control,
And thought that fondly clings
Around forbidden things,
Should find a purer outlet for her love—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
“O that I had wings,
I would escape from stormy winds away
And tempests,—from the pain that scoffing brings,
The strife of tongues, from mumbling crowds that pray
By flames unhallow'd, from the weary pain
That frets me for the nation that I love,
From warnings long unheard and teachings vain:
I would betake me to a quiet shore
Where billows heave no more—
Would touch the golden strings
Whereto the Seraph sings—
I would escape unto the courts above—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
I would escape from stormy winds away
And tempests,—from the pain that scoffing brings,
The strife of tongues, from mumbling crowds that pray
By flames unhallow'd, from the weary pain
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From warnings long unheard and teachings vain:
I would betake me to a quiet shore
Where billows heave no more—
Would touch the golden strings
Whereto the Seraph sings—
I would escape unto the courts above—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
| A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings | |