University of Virginia Library

O weakling nation, brood of foolish hearts,
Sons of dismay, children of rebel seed,
Ye that sin meanly in a joyless sin,
Ye that seek after death without reward,
And go and hire yourselves to follow him,
Reaping your own destruction for ill wage—
The strong God, merciful in all his power,
Cries to this people thro' my feeble lips.

Shall my soul always wrestle with your sins?
Are ye so mighty to despise my voice?
What are ye then? A little crumbled dust
Between my hands, an ash-cake in my palms.
Array me then your power, that I may smite;
So mean ye are I will not lift an arm,
Yea, with the breathing of a little breath,
I will blot out your record from the earth;
Shall the grain strive against the reaper's edge,
Shall the sheep bind the shepherd, shall the smoke
Throw down the altar? Ah, my people, hear.
Shall some dim vapour of a shaken wind
Lift up herself in scorn against my seat?
Shall rain-drops say, come let us beat his throne?
When the great sea, strong as my light is strong,
Mother of many a shining river-head,
The great white water-garland of the world,
Is shaken if I call across her deeps.
She would remove beyond the day-spring gate
In trembling undulation at my voice.
She shakes this ocean I have made so strong,
Is this then righteous, that ye know no fear?

Flee, crouch behind your gates; creep under caves,
Escape, depart, be hidden, get you far;
Lest I bend down my bow, and the dart leap
Hissing upon you brutish to obey,
Till ye be tamed with burning sores of death.

Ah, chosen people, once by strength and joy,
Have I not pleaded with your swerving feet?
I do not love, ye vain ones, that ye die.
Your foolish blood is bitter in mine eyes.
Yet am I weary crying all day long,
What if I make an end and call no more,
And let the red grave reap you suddenly?
Ye have not seen me in my battle might;
No supplication longer will restore
That mild god, your old refuge and supreme
Munition; when ye hold my easy laws,
Your path is pleasant underneath my hand,
Your soul is fed with dew. The old grey earth
Sleeps in content, hearing my spirit call,
“Be thou renewed.” To her my care is sweet,
And my word works upon her; as some dawn,
When the strong seed of light outspreads its stem
And leafage in among heaven's darkened floor;
Till there be no room vacant from the pure
Prevailing beams that touch the cloud to flower.
Ay, in such might my word hath wrought alone;
A little spoken word, a thrust-out hand,
The moving of an eyelid can prevail
Beyond the violent deep or burning cloud.
Nay more, my thought is greater than your deed,
My silent purpose than your wrestling arms.
What if I will it, tho' my lips be mute,
The raining of my favour winnows down
The soft air radiant. Feather-light it falls,
Balm to the broken, to the wounded sleep,
To parched lips honey, to the hungry bread.
In all sweet ways upon the sorest hearts;
Mighty indeed to heal being mine. The grain
Beaten about the field of many winds
Straightens again. From refuge creep the ewes
Bleating amid the vapour of the crags:
The doves begin a little in the rocks:
The vinedressers crawl out against the hills.
Why should ye disobey me any more?
Ye are in no wise great to purchase death.
The kings of men indeed—such are ye none—
Great of estate, in treasure-towers display
Excelling tissues, silk, and purple spoil,
Gold, spices, precious vessels, cedar, gums.
They can command desire with such a store,
And purchase costly evil to their wills.
They barter to lean death insatiable
Their fat souls at some profit. Sin rewards
Their service duly for a waning day.
He sits and pipes them back lascivious tunes
To mock the senses with a dream of heaven.
The unfailing fountains of their garden leap,
When drought has blackened half the village mouths,
The spice-air thickens in their orange-boughs;
And heavy scent of orchard terraces
Comes as the wind comes, with a swing of leaves.
It is a region sweet in air and sound;
But, out beyond the cincture of his lawns,
And brazen portals firm as mountain face,
The pestilence is heavy on the land,
And the dead thicken in the silent streets.
And round the failing wells the dying crawl;
And a strange haze, like lost low scraps of cloud,
Sickens their edges into poisoned hues,
And they float thick with swollen bandaged things.
And men who pass shudder and will taste none,
And no man reckons if he live the day.
But in his garden lolls the bloated king,
And laughs a languid laugh to see the slave
Curl her lithe limbs down fleecy coverlets,
And finger at the stringing of her lute,
Waiting upon his eye-lash, to command
Her lovely tones to tremble; as she sets
Her sweet breath into song to make him joy.
How he is lord of earth and love besides;
Absolute god; to whom her nature flows
In adoration; as some puny stream
Born in far hills throbs towards the amber gates,
Where sun and ocean mingle crowned in fire.
He is delighted in his days, for these
Few shadows of deliciousness ill-bought,
Some lying praises of a lute-girl's lay,
Some falser laughter, a brief purple state,
Fulness of bread, and plenitude of ease;
And like a smoke he is done with, and put down.
He shall not cry loud in the grave, or moan
For that sweet pleasaunce where he feasted well.
But I will lay no hand to heave him out.
But thou art even vainer than this fool;
Seeing that while he lived he took rare wine
In a large cup and yellow, with sweet lees;
Time came a little season for his slave
To cram his senses full of spice, and meat,
And music till he tumbled in his grave.
But thou wilt serve on death without a wage,
Since bitter is the best of thy day's fruit.

Thou art not mighty. Thou art storeless, cold,
Unroyal, hungry. Earth to thee is lean
And pastureless. How should'st thou not obey
My easier precept? Wilt thou leave so much,
To make thee serve me in a dainty heed?
But my reward is great in after-fruit,
And my delight is lovely as sweet rain;
My chosen never shall be trampled down;
I will reveal them hidden water-heads,
Fountains of moisture quiet in sweet grass,
And reeds that sound at season with the quail.
Cry out upon my glory and have rest;
Crowd to my shadow, and feed full with ease.
Cry, oh, my children, and my shine shall break
Flower-wise from heaven. Am I, the great one, waned
To this exceeding weakness? Is my hand
Feeble to save, since ye refuse to call?
Can I not bring again the sweet old years?
I will restore the broken, and set straight
The failing knees. I will bring back your rest,
Ye bruisèd and forgotten ones of sin.
Ye shall emerge from hill-dens cavernous
Whereby ye made your harbour with the wolves,
Your bread wild berries, bitter herb your oil.
Ye shall have housing warm and store of beeves,
And comfortable prospect at your doors.
I will command the locust that he spare,
I will refrain the canker lest he spoil.
I will make heavy in its husk the ear,
So that it bend the straw-stalk under it.
Against the light cloud I will stand and say,
Render thy moisture, satisfy the land;
So that my people dwell fulfilled with ease.
I will reward them, if they will obey;
But if, with stubborn faces, they return
To surfeit on the savour of old sins;
Lo, I predict of these fair things not one,
But for all feasting-houses emptiness,
Ash for choice raiment, wail for viol song,
Wormwood for wine, for all fine silver scum,
Darkness and wrath and burning and dismay.