 | MOSES IN MIDIAN. Water-drops |  |
15. MOSES IN MIDIAN.
Why art thou here, amid the streams and flocks,
Oh, foster-son of Egypt! rear'd in all
The luxury of courts? Is there no nerve
Of strong ambition in thy secret soul?
Didst never think, 'twere sweet to be a king?
Or that her love who drew thee from the Nile,
Fill'd with compassion for the babe that wept,
Might to her other bounties add a crown?
But yet thou seem'st content with rural charms,
Nor wears thy brow a trace of wrinkling care
Or rootless expectation. Thy young heart's
Requited love, and the free intercourse
With Nature in her solitude and peace,
Her fringed fountains and heaven-haunted dells,
Give thee full solace.
And when twilight gray
Leadeth thy lambs to fold, or trembling stars
Look from their chambers on the sleeping founts
With tender eye, perchance thy hand doth strike
The solitary lyre, or weave in dyes
Of sable and of gold, his wondrous fate
Oh, foster-son of Egypt! rear'd in all
The luxury of courts? Is there no nerve
Of strong ambition in thy secret soul?
Didst never think, 'twere sweet to be a king?
Or that her love who drew thee from the Nile,
Fill'd with compassion for the babe that wept,
Might to her other bounties add a crown?
But yet thou seem'st content with rural charms,
Nor wears thy brow a trace of wrinkling care
Or rootless expectation. Thy young heart's
Requited love, and the free intercourse
With Nature in her solitude and peace,
Her fringed fountains and heaven-haunted dells,
Give thee full solace.
And when twilight gray
Leadeth thy lambs to fold, or trembling stars
Look from their chambers on the sleeping founts
With tender eye, perchance thy hand doth strike
The solitary lyre, or weave in dyes
Of sable and of gold, his wondrous fate
84
Who drank so deep of sorrow and of joy,—.
The man of Uz.
For Poesy doth dwell
With pastoral musing, and the tuneful lore
Of birds and brooks. And who feeleth that
æolian harp within him, hath no need
Of the inspiring wine-cup, or the gong
Of the great, pompous world.
Spake not the voice
Of Midian's gushing waters to thine ear,
Prelusive of the honors and the toils
Awaiting thee? Came there no darkened dream
Of desert wanderings? of a manna-fed
And murmuring host? of thine own burdened heart
Bearing alone, the cumbrance and the strife
Of mutinous spirits, when the wrath of God
Burned fierce among them, and avenging Earth
Opening her mouth, prepared their living tomb?
Oh! linger still, amid the groves and streams,
And to green pastures, fed by gladsome rills,
Lead on with gentle crook thy docile sheep,
While yet thou may'st. With holy Nature make
Close fellowship, and woo the still, small voice
Of inspiration, to thy secret soul,
In lonely thought. So shall it gather strength
To do the bidding of Omnipotence,
And walk on Sinai, face to face, with God.
The man of Uz.
For Poesy doth dwell
With pastoral musing, and the tuneful lore
Of birds and brooks. And who feeleth that
æolian harp within him, hath no need
Of the inspiring wine-cup, or the gong
Of the great, pompous world.
Spake not the voice
Of Midian's gushing waters to thine ear,
Prelusive of the honors and the toils
Awaiting thee? Came there no darkened dream
Of desert wanderings? of a manna-fed
And murmuring host? of thine own burdened heart
Bearing alone, the cumbrance and the strife
Of mutinous spirits, when the wrath of God
Burned fierce among them, and avenging Earth
Opening her mouth, prepared their living tomb?
Oh! linger still, amid the groves and streams,
And to green pastures, fed by gladsome rills,
Lead on with gentle crook thy docile sheep,
While yet thou may'st. With holy Nature make
Close fellowship, and woo the still, small voice
Of inspiration, to thy secret soul,
In lonely thought. So shall it gather strength
To do the bidding of Omnipotence,
And walk on Sinai, face to face, with God.
| MOSES IN MIDIAN. Water-drops | |