University of Virginia Library

I.

He stood on that prophetic height,
The chief of Israel's host,
And cast, inspired of God, his sight
Round Canaan's furthest coast:
Where Spring, like some fair youthful queen,
Decked Jordan's banks with loveliest green,
And, right in Judah's onward road,
The City of the Palm-trees glowed,
And Idumæa's mountains lay
Far in the South, obscurely grey,
To where the purple died away
Upon the Western main:
Where Ephraim's hills in glory shone,
By sea-stormed Carmel, on and on,
Till, crowned with snow-wreaths, Lebanon
Girt in Sidonia's plain.
Nor less he views each future scene,
Though many a century intervene;
How Judah's holier mount shall own
The Lord's elected seat,
And Sion's future towers enthrone
The footstool of His feet:
—Behold the land thy tribes must win,
But plead thou not to enter in!

II.

Of all the vision, sweet yet faint,
That cheered the warrior and the saint,
What landscape could so brightly shine,
Bethlehem-Ephratah, as thine?
Dear sunny fields,—true “House of bread,”—
True home of David's race;
Whence Judah's mystic bands are fed
And whence endued with grace;
Where He His earliest light shall pour,
The Flower of Jesse's rod;
The Wonderful, the Counsellor,
The Everlasting God:
Where Israel's tribes shall lift the horn,
And Satan's ranks be riven,
What time to us a Child is born,
To us a Son is given:
Where midnight skies shall sing His birth,
The future Lord of ransomed earth;
Nor Gloria in Excelsis cease
From furthest shore to shore
To tell of “peace to men of peace,”
From thenceforth evermore.

III.

O glorious theme! but all too high
For my unskilful minstrelsy:
I rather turn my ruder rhyme
Back to the scenes of earlier time;
Though still we mark the dews that gem
Each leaf and flower of Bethlehem;
Still note the evening's latest tint
Upon her rustic turrets glint;
Though many a sun has yet in turn
To ripen Bethlehem's corn,
And many a summer's course to burn,
Before her Lord is born.
Let others tell how here that Name,
That Blessed Name, was won;
And wreathe a garland for His fame,
The everlasting Son:
To no such strain I tune my string,
No such renown I hail;
I leave them all,—content to sing
A simple village-tale.

IV.

A sky of the deepest and tenderest blue:
A landscape that glistens with May's first dew:
The land of the olive, the land of the vine,
The region that floweth with oil and with wine:
While the pathway, down to the valley, glows
With Hermon's lily, and Sharon's rose:
And, like peaceful squadrons in rank enrolled,
The broad slopes glitter with barley-gold:
What spot upon earth, as the spot where we stand,
Is so like the happy eternal Land?
But there is no riving of heart from heart:
There none can sorrow, and none can part:
There sickness is banished, and dried each tear,
And consoled each mourner—'tis not so here!

V.

'Tis not so here—for sad and slow,
With words of doubt, and mien of woe,
Three pilgrims onward stray;
They mark not how, exulting loud,
The lark, from yonder purple cloud,
Salutes the early day:
They reck not how the air is balm,
How nature's very self breathes calm,
And all her tribes are gay:
No! there is hidden grief that lies
Too deep for all her harmonies.
Three pilgrims: one with matron air,
And features worn, yet sadly fair,
And beauty in its calm decay,
As landscape in an autumn day:
And two that to her neck have clung,
Like roses round some firmer stem,
O'er which their gentle leaves have hung,
And which their red buds diadem.
Both lovely as a dream—both dight
In robes of eastern beauty's light:
But she, whose darker ringlets deck
The fair pure brow, and purer neck,
Whose eye is clear and firm and true
As summer heaven of deepest blue,
Whose clinging gesture tells how much
Affection speaks by very touch,—
Go forth and search from East to West
For tenderest eye and snowiest breast,
For mingled loveliness and truth,
And thou shalt find their home in Ruth!
But who that sees them now, would dare
To think that Orpah were less fair?
Less fixed in faith, less firm in hope,
With every toil, for love, to cope?

VI.

Two summer morns alike may break,
And bid the wood's sweet anthems wake;
And one shall mark its sun descend
Unclouded, to his glorious end,
And one shall see the whirlwind rise,
And storm and gloom enshroud its skies.
Two summer larks alike may spring,
At daybreak, on their upward wing;
And this at eve shall carol loud
Beneath her canopy of cloud,
And that, before the west is grey,
Shall flutter as the fowler's prey.
Two rosebuds shall alike be seen
To burst their shrine of emerald green;
And one shall shed its life-long breath
In sweetness, and be sweet in death;
And one, ere yet 'tis fully burst,
With mildew and with blight be curst.
And so these twain:—this hour shall view
Which is the feigned and which the true.

VII.

With her fair sad face, and her matron grace,
She spake to her daughters twain;
And her glance was cast to the days that were past,
And could never return again:
To the loved ones that lie 'neath an alien sky,
And moulder in heathen clay;
And never shall stand in the Lord's own land
Till the Resurrection Day.

VIII.

“O happy hours, while yet of old
The God of Jacob watched His fold,
While yours, mine own, it was to bless
With love and careful tenderness:
And though remembering, day by day,
The Lord's own mansion, far away,
And mindful, at each evening's rise,
Of Shiloh's holy Sacrifice,—
Still had I hoped one day to tread,
With you and with the holy dead,
To you unknown, but dear to them,
The quiet fields of Bethlehem.
That hope is past: and though my heart
Half breaks to say it, we must part:
'Tis the Most High that wills it—No!
Cling not to me, sweet daughters, so!
I have no sons, my joy and pride,
Henceforth to claim in each their bride;
I have no hope, in sinking age
To find a home for heritage.
Turn, then, and seek your native shore;
Turn to your people's shrine once more:
And, wheresoe'er your lot be thrown,
The God we trust in guard His own!
And give you some one day to prove
His best and holiest treasure, love;
And infants that shall yet be pressed
With mother's rapture to the breast:
And so His aid be by you felt,
His shield around you spread,
As, in the former days, ye dealt
With me, and with the dead!”

IX.

O Orpah, dost thou hide thy face,
And canst thou bear to sever?
And hast thou heart for that embrace
Which says farewell for ever?
—Thou, in Whose Hand is earthly bliss,
Oh give me any woe but this!
That where I lean with every power
Of faith and love and trust,
I ever should endure the hour
That crushes all to dust!
Take those I love, if so Thy will,
And I may love them dearlier still:
They pass but for a while away,
They dwell at home with Thee;—
And I shall go to them, tho' they
Shall not return to me:
But thus to lose the faith of years,—
'Tis grief that lies too deep for tears:
'Tis gloom, whence hope no ray can borrow:
'Tis night that cannot look for morrow.
Once more I pray:—an Orpah's kiss,—
O give me any woe but this!

X.

What time the storm was black as night,
And rain was driving fast,
And gulfs of cloud, from height to height,
Were tossed before the blast:
Hast thou not seen the rainbow-arch
From North to South serenely march,
And heard its own consoling cheer,
‘Be of good comfort! God is here!’
So as they stood beside the palm
Where Orpah bade farewell,
Those accents full of love and calm
Upon the silence fell:
“Whate'er of weal, whate'er of woe,
Beset thy future way,
Whither thou goest, I will go,
And where thou stayest, stay:
Where'er thou shalt have bowed the knee,
Whatever path have trod,
Thy people shall my people be,
Thy God shall be my God:
And when that darkest hour draws nigh,
Yet be not thou afraid:
For where thou diest, I will die,
And there will I be laid:
And God do so and more to me,
If aught but death part me and thee!”

XI.

Three thousand years have passed away
Since first those words were spoken,
And still, as on that very day,
Their spell remains unbroken:
The exile on an alien shore
Drinks in their high devotion,
The home-wrapped seaman cons them o'er
Upon the Atlantic Ocean:
The soldier grasps them for his shield
Before the sign of battle;
They whisper comfort in the field
Above the cannon's rattle:
Watchword of woman's love, that still
Will mock at space, and smile at ill:
That, when the clouds close darkest round,
Will only shine the brighter;
That, when the rest are faithless found,
Will only cling the tighter:
‘The Lord do so and more to me,
If aught but death part me and thee!’

XII.

Thou art praised in Sion, O God of Hosts!
And to Thee they perform the vow,
When they go to worship in Salem's coasts,
And before Thine Altar bow:
Thou visitest earth with a glorious birth;
Thou makest it plenteous indeed;
And the River of God shall fatten the sod,
For so Thou preparest the seed:
Thou waterest her furrows, Thou droppest the grain
Into every little vale;
And Thou makest it soft with the drops of rain,
Nor lettest the increase fail:
Thou crownest the year with Thy goodness here,
And Thy clouds drop fatness still:
They shall comfort and bless the wilderness,
And gladden each little hill:
—The folds shall be full of sheep!
The valleys so thick with corn,
That for very joy they shall laugh and leap,
When Thou liftest Thy people's horn!

XIII.

So from the break of early day,
Until the night grew dim,
In Ephratah, while all was gay,
Went on the harvest hymn:
But thou in harvest joy to share,
Poor wanderer! hast but little care!
—She hastened forth from Bethlehem
With all a Mother's pride,
Content the world's wild waves to stem,
Her husband at her side:
Now she returns in life's decay,
Youth's brightest dreams dissolved away:
Her footsteps, like an alien's, roam
Round that which once she called her home:
And, but for this dear treasure, now
Hers by affection and by vow,
As lonely midst her own she stands,
As shipwrecked man on stranger sands.
‘O call me not Naomi,—God
Hath changed my former name!
And for the Crown He sends the rod,
And for the glory, shame:
Yet to His Will content to bow,—
My title must be Mara now!’

XIV.

I marvel not that poets teach
Of that fair golden time,
When heart was pure, when thought was speech,
When heart was in her prime.
And so I deem, as I behold
Where Bethlehem's harvest waves in gold,
And see the lord of all the land
Come forth amidst his reaper band,
With gentle mien and kindly air,
As if an equal part they bare,
—The master in the servants' toil,
The servants in the master's spoil.
“The Lord be with thee!”—O sweet token
Of love to God and man unbroken!
O glorious words, which not alone
Shall Bethlehem's hills repeat,
But after years, from zone to zone,
Shall echo at the Lord's own Throne
In many a cadence sweet:
What time the vast Cathedral pile,
From vaulted Nave and fretted Aisle,
Shall, all in answer meet,
“And with thy spirit!” make reply,
In that full choral harmony!

XV.

But one there is, of stranger mien,
Who dares in those sweet fields to glean,
Where none may grudge, and none upbraids,
Amidst the ranks of Israel's maids;
Although the fierce sun, flaming down,
Hath tinged her cheek with darker brown,
Although with unaccustomed toil
She gather in the reaper's spoil,
Deem not her task unblessed above—
She toils in faith, and works for love.
“Hearken, my daughter! Seek not now
In other fields to stray,
But by my maidens tarry thou,
And in my harvest stay:
And at their fountain cool thy lip,
And in their cup thy morsel dip:
Have I not charged them, that they be
As though they shared one home with thee?”

XVI.

—Oh, in this world, that turns its sight
To darkness rather than to light,
And, in its course embruted,
That loves to brand the pure and bright
As faithless and polluted;
The very worst suspecting still,
And out of good inventing ill;
In this poor judgment-seat of dust,
How great a thing is holy trust!
—The merry harvest feast is past;
The harvest pipe is hushed at last;
In scattered farm and distant cot
Of many a wild and hill-side spot,
The reapers, while in silence dim
The moon her bright watch keepeth,
Once more commend themselves to Him,
Who slumbereth not nor sleepeth.
But Boaz,—he must be secure
Whose willing hand hath fed the poor,—
But Boaz lays him down to rest,
Where are the barn sheaves closeliest prest.
When the Lord's banner is unfurled,
And crushed are death and sin,
Thus, in the harvest of the world,
He shall be garnered in!

XVII.

Oh blame her not! she comes impressed
By Israel's law in clear behest:
Directed by the lore of age
To claim her wifely heritage:
As pure as Angels in the sky,
As safe as in a sanctuary.
The heaven is calm, the night is dark:
That barn-floor is her holy ark:
He sleeps the good man's slumber sweet;
She crouches stilly at his feet:
And guardian Angels watch above,
With looks of joy and thoughts of love:
They see, in prophet-vision clear,
The future scenes that shall be there:
The Babe that comes our woes to heal,
And make our bitter sweet:
The Virgin Mother that shall kneel
And worship at His Feet:
Though Israel may reject her Lord,
The ox and ass shall know
The Prince, for evermore adored,
Who comes to dwell below:
And hither shall the wise men bring
Their offerings three, to own
The God, the Mortal, and the King,
Who reigns from Sion's throne!
When shall the promised time appear,
That this shall be, and this be here?
That promised time and King they see,
And trace His line, sweet Ruth, to thee!

XVIII.

Why should I tell how midnight rest
With holy, plighted troth was blest?
Why should I tell, at Bethlehem's gate
How Bethlehem's chosen elders wait,
And call the God Who rules the sky
The sacred bond to ratify?
How she, the alien one, who chose
In Israel's land to find repose,
Her home, her kin, her gods forsaken,
From Israel's God hath guerdon taken?
And therefore is her name enrolled
In that celestial page,
Which, writ in characters of gold,
Shall live from age to age:
And therefore doth her story shine,
Unspotted, in Messiah's line;
And she hath won the endless fame
That from her heathen-root He came.
And so, amidst a world of strife,
She speaks the words of hope and life:
‘If thou art called to toil for truth,
Yet be not thou afraid;
But think upon the God of Ruth,
And He shall give thee aid!’