 | Lazarus And other Poems |  |
And so I wooed thee, and thou didst not spurn
The prophet's offered love. Awhile there woke
Within thy soul the thoughts of nobler life,
And so thou call'dst me husband. O my God!
Look Thou with pity on me, as I track
That fearful past. Renouncing all the joys,
The blessings of the bridegroom and the bride,
When each to other brings the virgin heart,
The Eden-bliss of lilies white and pure,
The stainless passion purifying sense,
I, knowing all, enfolded in mine arms
A lily torn and trampled in the mire,
A poor crushed dove, its snow-white beauty gone.
The prophet's offered love. Awhile there woke
Within thy soul the thoughts of nobler life,
And so thou call'dst me husband. O my God!
88
That fearful past. Renouncing all the joys,
The blessings of the bridegroom and the bride,
When each to other brings the virgin heart,
The Eden-bliss of lilies white and pure,
The stainless passion purifying sense,
I, knowing all, enfolded in mine arms
A lily torn and trampled in the mire,
A poor crushed dove, its snow-white beauty gone.
And soon the canker spread. The prophet's home,
The simple life of labour and of prayer,
The sabbath-gathering, and the new moon's feasts,
These grew distasteful. All her wayward heart
Went back to those wild dances of the night,
The garland, and the music, and the song;
And soon the wish impelled her to the act;
She trod that path again. She turned from me,
Her husband and her lord, and took her place
Once more among the slaves of Ashtaroth,
And did as others did. Oh! bitterest grief,
Oh! darkest hour in all a father's life,
When, listening to the cry of new-born babes,
The warring currents ebb and flow within,
One impulse true and godlike, all the love
Of sire to son full streaming through his soul,
And one of doubt and fear. I dared not call
Those babes mine own; and dared I clasp the fruit
Of that abhorred transgression? So I turned
As, year by year, three births in order came,
Year after year, in sorrow and in wrath;
And when the eighth day shone, with mystic names,
I told the secret sorrow of my soul;
Jezreel, my first-born, witness of a guilt
As foul as was the blood on Jehu's hand,
Lo-Ammi, Lo-Ruhamah, “not mine own,”
“No yearning of my soul goes forth to thee.”
The simple life of labour and of prayer,
The sabbath-gathering, and the new moon's feasts,
These grew distasteful. All her wayward heart
Went back to those wild dances of the night,
The garland, and the music, and the song;
And soon the wish impelled her to the act;
She trod that path again. She turned from me,
Her husband and her lord, and took her place
Once more among the slaves of Ashtaroth,
And did as others did. Oh! bitterest grief,
Oh! darkest hour in all a father's life,
When, listening to the cry of new-born babes,
The warring currents ebb and flow within,
One impulse true and godlike, all the love
Of sire to son full streaming through his soul,
And one of doubt and fear. I dared not call
Those babes mine own; and dared I clasp the fruit
89
As, year by year, three births in order came,
Year after year, in sorrow and in wrath;
And when the eighth day shone, with mystic names,
I told the secret sorrow of my soul;
Jezreel, my first-born, witness of a guilt
As foul as was the blood on Jehu's hand,
Lo-Ammi, Lo-Ruhamah, “not mine own,”
“No yearning of my soul goes forth to thee.”
| Lazarus And other Poems | |