 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE WEEPING PROPHET.
Woe, woe is me for my dear country's sin!
Woe, that a prophet's torch was given to me
To hold up, hid God's shadowing light within,
Before a people who refuse to see
How guilt draws down that light in burning levin;
How awful is the purity of Heaven.
Woe, that a prophet's torch was given to me
To hold up, hid God's shadowing light within,
Before a people who refuse to see
How guilt draws down that light in burning levin;
How awful is the purity of Heaven.
60
A boy among the hills of Anathoth
I saw the visionary caldron seethe,
The almond-tree its ominous blossoms wreathe,
In token that a righteous God was wroth
With Israel, and in judgment would condemn
The city of his love, Jerusalem.
I saw the visionary caldron seethe,
The almond-tree its ominous blossoms wreathe,
In token that a righteous God was wroth
With Israel, and in judgment would condemn
The city of his love, Jerusalem.
To be his messenger of wrath I shrank:
I cried, “O Lord, I am a child, so weak!
Who bears a curse, none give God-speed, or thank.”
Then did He touch my lips, his words I speak;
And, knowing that his eyes are on the truth,
I cannot answer evil ways with ruth.
I cried, “O Lord, I am a child, so weak!
Who bears a curse, none give God-speed, or thank.”
Then did He touch my lips, his words I speak;
And, knowing that his eyes are on the truth,
I cannot answer evil ways with ruth.
Therefore I sit a mourner, and mine eyes
Pour day and night their heavy sorrows down.
My people pass me by, for they despise
His goodness, and with scoffs his warnings drown.
While overhead, in cloudy columns low,
The birds of prey that scent their ruin go.
Pour day and night their heavy sorrows down.
My people pass me by, for they despise
His goodness, and with scoffs his warnings drown.
While overhead, in cloudy columns low,
The birds of prey that scent their ruin go.
Was ever any sorrow like to mine?
It is no selfish trouble that I weep,
O daughter of my people, but I keep
Vigil for thee, beneath the wrath divine,
The love that reddens into justice, when
God's perfect law is made the mock of men.
It is no selfish trouble that I weep,
O daughter of my people, but I keep
Vigil for thee, beneath the wrath divine,
The love that reddens into justice, when
God's perfect law is made the mock of men.
For, evermore, the tables of that law,
Broken by man, are back upon him hurled.
O virgin daughter, thee defiled I saw,
Wandering from Him, an outcast in the world,
Filthy without, and vile and crushed within;
A by-word through the ages for thy sin.
Broken by man, are back upon him hurled.
O virgin daughter, thee defiled I saw,
Wandering from Him, an outcast in the world,
Filthy without, and vile and crushed within;
A by-word through the ages for thy sin.
Alike in visions of the day and night,
A spectral presence, not to be shut out,
A bleeding shadow, chased by shame and doubt,
Hither and thither past me takes its flight
Into the unsheltering dark of east and west:
A phantom, yet in faded splendors drest.
A spectral presence, not to be shut out,
A bleeding shadow, chased by shame and doubt,
Hither and thither past me takes its flight
Into the unsheltering dark of east and west:
A phantom, yet in faded splendors drest.
For thou wert beautiful, Jerusalem!
Celestial colors wrapped thee at thy birth;
Kings pressed from far to kiss thy garment's hem,
Chosen of God, a glory in the earth!
Falling from such a height to such a deep,—
To be the prophet of thy doom I weep!
Celestial colors wrapped thee at thy birth;
Kings pressed from far to kiss thy garment's hem,
Chosen of God, a glory in the earth!
Falling from such a height to such a deep,—
To be the prophet of thy doom I weep!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |