University of Virginia Library

But anger swell'd the haughty prophet's breast,
Rage burn'd within, and robb'd his soul of rest;
Such was his pride, he wish'd they all in flame
Might rather perish than belie his fame,
And GOD'S own bolts the tottering towers assail,
And millions perish, than his word should fail.
Then to the heavens he sent this peevish prayer—
(Vain, impious man, to send such pinings there):

“While yet within my native land, I stay'd,
“This would at last reward my toil, I said,
“Destruction through the Assyrian streets to cry,
“And then the event my mission falsify;
“For this I strove to shun thy sight before,
“And sought repose upon a foreign shore;
“I knew thou wert so gracious and so kind,
“Such mercy sways thy all creating mind,
“Averse thy bolts of vengeance to employ,
“And still relenting when you should'st destroy,
“That when I had declar'd thy sacred will,
“Thou would'st not what I prophesy'd fulfill,
“But leave me thus to scorn, contempt, and shame,
“A lying prophet, blasted in my fame—
“And now, I pray thee, grant my last request,
“O take my life, so wretched and unblest!
“If there I stay, 'tis but to grieve and sigh;
“Then take my life—'tis better for to die?”

“Is it thy place to swell with rage and pride,”
(Thus to his pining prophet, God reply'd)
“Say is it just thy heart should burn with ire
“Because yon' city is not wrapt in fire?
“What if I choose its ruin to delay,
“And send destruction on some future day,
“Must thou, for that, with wasting anguish sigh,
“And, hostile to my pleasure, wish to die?”

Then Jonah parted from the mourning town,
And near its eastern limits sate him down,
A booth he builded with assiduous care,
(Form'd of the cypress boughs that flourish'd there)
And anxious now beneath their shadow lay,
Waiting the issue of the fortieth day—
As yet uncertain if the Power Divine
Or would to mercy, or to wrath incline—

Meantime the leaves that roof'd this arbour o'er,
Shrunk up and faded, sheltered him no more;

But GOD ordain'd a thrifty gourd to rise,
To screen his prophet from the scorching skies;
High o'er his head aspired the spreading leaf,
Too fondly meant to mitigate his grief,
So close a foliage o'er his head was made,
That not a beam could pierce the happy shade:
The wondering seer perceiv'd the branches grow
And bless'd the shadow that reliev'd his woe;

But when the next bright morn began to shine
(So God ordain'd) a worm attack'd the vine,
Beneath his bite its goodly leaves decay,
And wasting, withering, die before the day!
Then as the lamp of heaven still higher rose
From eastern skies a sultry tempest blows,
The vertic sun as fiercely pour'd his ray,
And beam'd around insufferable day.
How beat those beams on Jonah's fainting head!
How oft he wish'd a place among the dead!
All he could do, was now to grieve and sigh,
His life detest, and beg of God to die.

Again, JEHOVAH to his prophet said,
“Art thou so angry for thy vanish'd shade—
“For a mere shadow dost thou well to grieve,
“For this poor loss would'st thou thy being leave?”—

“My rage is just, (the frantic prophet cry'd),
“My last, my only comfort is deny'd—
“The spreading vine that form'd my leafy bower;
“Behold it vanish'd in the needful hour!
“To beating winds and sultry suns a prey,
“My fainting spirit droops and dies away—
“Give me a mansion in my native dust,
“For though I die with rage, my rage is just.”

Once more the Almighty deign'd to make reply—
“Does this lost gourd thy sorrow swell so high,
“Whose friendly shade not to thy toil was due,
“Alone it sprouted and alone it grew;
“A night beheld its branches waving high,
“And the next sun beheld those branches die;
“And should not pity move the LORD of all
“To spare the vast Assyrian capital,
“Within whose walls uncounted myriads stray,
“Their Father I, my sinful offspring they?—
“Should they not move the creating mind
“With six score thousand of the infant kind,
“And herds untold that graze the spacious field,
“For whom yon' meads their stores of fragrance yield;
“Should I this royal city wrap in flame,
“And slaughter millions to support thy fame,
“When now repentant to their God they turn,
“And their past follies, low in ashes, mourn?—
“Vain thoughtless wretch, recall thy weak request,
“Death never came to man a welcome guest;—
“Why wish to die—what madness prompts thy mind?
“Too long the days of darkness thou shalt find;
“Life was a blessing by the Maker meant,
“Dost thou despise the blessings he has lent—
“Enjoy my gifts while yet the seasons run
“True to their months, and social with the sun;
“When to the dust my mandate bids thee fall,
“All these are lost, for death conceals them all—
“No more the sun illumes the sprightly day,
“The seasons vanish, and the stars decay:
“The trees, the flowers, no more thy sense delight,
“Death shades them all in ever-during night.
“Then think not long the little space I lent—
“Of thy own sins, like Nineveh, repent;
“Rejoice at last the mighty change to see,
“And bear with them as I have borne with thee.”