 | Lazarus And other Poems |  |
Dedication. TO H. T. P.
Two children, sporting by their land-locked sea,Launch their small craft to tempt the changeful deep;
He carves the prow, and trims the sails, and she
Looks on, half trembling, lest the gales that sweep
Too roughly whelm the priceless argosy.
So we, adventuring on the waves our freight,
The harvest reaped through years of many days,
Send forth our ship, unknowing of her fate,
Rough East of blame, or soft South-West of praise,
Warm sun of love, or freezing storm of hate:
So look we on, through all the shifting skies,
Cast forth the seed to every wave and wind,
The dim, grey distance watch with hope-lit eyes,
All trustful on the far-off Shore to find.
October 29, 1864.
1
LAZARUS.
I
The sun was setting, and the good ship sailed
Into Massilia's harbour. On her prow,
All golden, glittering in the crimson light,
The Dioscuri shone. A motley crowd
Were mingled on the deck; swarth figures clothed
In strange apparel, from the further East,
Bringing their spice and balm from Lebanon
To tempt our western beauties; Æthiop boys,
Bound for the market, crouching side by side
With blue-eyed Thracians; merchants with their wares,
The wools of famed Miletus, and the dyes
Of Thyatira, noble in their hues,
As is the purple ocean when the sun,
Sinking in glory, flushes all the waves;
The woven goat's hair from Ancyra's loom,
And silver shrines of Artemis, and figs
From Smyrna's hills, and honey from the slopes
Of famed Hymettus, with its scent of thyme;
And strange, rich fruits that glowed in beds of moss,
The Median apple and the Pontic pear,
And rough pomegranate with its gem-like cells.
Jews too were there. the men of alien race
And alien creed, who shrank from Heathen touch,
And ate not with the others, but apart,
From well-filled baskets took their bread and fish,
With solemn words of blessing. They had come,
Dealers in gold and silver, goodly pearls,
And rubies rare, and purple amethysts
From Indian shores, a ransom for a king.
Into Massilia's harbour. On her prow,
All golden, glittering in the crimson light,
The Dioscuri shone. A motley crowd
Were mingled on the deck; swarth figures clothed
In strange apparel, from the further East,
Bringing their spice and balm from Lebanon
To tempt our western beauties; Æthiop boys,
Bound for the market, crouching side by side
With blue-eyed Thracians; merchants with their wares,
The wools of famed Miletus, and the dyes
Of Thyatira, noble in their hues,
As is the purple ocean when the sun,
Sinking in glory, flushes all the waves;
The woven goat's hair from Ancyra's loom,
And silver shrines of Artemis, and figs
From Smyrna's hills, and honey from the slopes
Of famed Hymettus, with its scent of thyme;
2
The Median apple and the Pontic pear,
And rough pomegranate with its gem-like cells.
Jews too were there. the men of alien race
And alien creed, who shrank from Heathen touch,
And ate not with the others, but apart,
From well-filled baskets took their bread and fish,
With solemn words of blessing. They had come,
Dealers in gold and silver, goodly pearls,
And rubies rare, and purple amethysts
From Indian shores, a ransom for a king.
They landed and were scattered: some to friends
Who stood expectant; some to wile the time
In taverns, where the wine-cup circled round,
And song and dance made merry; some to trade
In the full market, where the dealers met.
But one there was, who, silent all the way,
Had companied with none; who, silent now
And lonely, waited on the quay, and found
No friends to welcome. No adventurer he,
With cunning wares; no wanderer roaming far
To see the cities, note the lives of men;
But fixed and strong in mood, as one who seeks
The longed-for goal, and slacks not till he finds.
Some eight-and-twenty summers he had seen,
And still the brow was smooth and eye undimmed,
As in youth's brightest prime; but all the glee,
The mirth, the sunshine of the golden dawn
Had vanished, and a twilight grey had come
Before its time. No curling locks flowed down,
Fragrant with spikenard, over silky vest;
No jewelled fingers played with golden chain;
But plain and rough he stood, as is the sage
Who calls the Porch his master; russet serge
Was all his raiment, and his hair, cut close
To noble brow, revealed the noble eye
That looked with eager glance on things and men,
And turned through all the mists from earth to Heaven.
Leaving that crowd, and threading on his way
Through street and lane, he passed unheeding by
The halls of senates and the shrines of gods,
And onward journeyed to the suburb poor
And dark and squalid, where Massilian Jews
Were fain to dwell. And coming there, he asked
For one named Eleazar. For a while
He found him not: they had not heard the name;
No Jew so called had traded in their mart,
Or worshipped in their synagogue. At last
Some traces met his search. In dreary huts,
Where hunger ever haunted, they could tell
Of bread that came from him, of angel words
From lips of sisters who, in constant love,
Had shared his home and helped him in his age:
And now they both were gone, and he was left.
Who stood expectant; some to wile the time
In taverns, where the wine-cup circled round,
And song and dance made merry; some to trade
In the full market, where the dealers met.
But one there was, who, silent all the way,
Had companied with none; who, silent now
And lonely, waited on the quay, and found
No friends to welcome. No adventurer he,
With cunning wares; no wanderer roaming far
To see the cities, note the lives of men;
But fixed and strong in mood, as one who seeks
The longed-for goal, and slacks not till he finds.
Some eight-and-twenty summers he had seen,
And still the brow was smooth and eye undimmed,
As in youth's brightest prime; but all the glee,
3
Had vanished, and a twilight grey had come
Before its time. No curling locks flowed down,
Fragrant with spikenard, over silky vest;
No jewelled fingers played with golden chain;
But plain and rough he stood, as is the sage
Who calls the Porch his master; russet serge
Was all his raiment, and his hair, cut close
To noble brow, revealed the noble eye
That looked with eager glance on things and men,
And turned through all the mists from earth to Heaven.
Leaving that crowd, and threading on his way
Through street and lane, he passed unheeding by
The halls of senates and the shrines of gods,
And onward journeyed to the suburb poor
And dark and squalid, where Massilian Jews
Were fain to dwell. And coming there, he asked
For one named Eleazar. For a while
He found him not: they had not heard the name;
No Jew so called had traded in their mart,
Or worshipped in their synagogue. At last
Some traces met his search. In dreary huts,
Where hunger ever haunted, they could tell
Of bread that came from him, of angel words
From lips of sisters who, in constant love,
Had shared his home and helped him in his age:
And now they both were gone, and he was left.
4
So guided, the young stranger from the coasts
Of distant Asia found the mean abode
Of him he sought for. Knocking at the gate,
A low voice bade him enter, and he found,
Stretched on his couch, with snow-white hair and beard,
Calm with the calm of sunset, the old man
Whom he had sought so long, and heard his voice
As startled by the lifting of the latch:
“Who comes,” he asked, “at this unwonted hour
To break the usual stillness of my life?
What dost thou here, O stranger? Youth draws back
From age's death-bed. I have nought to give:
No heaped-up riches will reward the toil
That waits for dead men's treasures. Go thy way,
And leave me to myself; or tell thy tale
In fewest words, that I may rest again.”
So speaking, turning weary eyes, he looked
(As the one lamp shot forth its flickering gleam)
At the old book that lay beneath his hands,
At the rough cross that stood beside his couch,
At the white skull that spake to him of death.
Of distant Asia found the mean abode
Of him he sought for. Knocking at the gate,
A low voice bade him enter, and he found,
Stretched on his couch, with snow-white hair and beard,
Calm with the calm of sunset, the old man
Whom he had sought so long, and heard his voice
As startled by the lifting of the latch:
“Who comes,” he asked, “at this unwonted hour
To break the usual stillness of my life?
What dost thou here, O stranger? Youth draws back
From age's death-bed. I have nought to give:
No heaped-up riches will reward the toil
That waits for dead men's treasures. Go thy way,
And leave me to myself; or tell thy tale
In fewest words, that I may rest again.”
So speaking, turning weary eyes, he looked
(As the one lamp shot forth its flickering gleam)
At the old book that lay beneath his hands,
At the rough cross that stood beside his couch,
At the white skull that spake to him of death.
But he, the stranger, meekly made reply.
“Nay, father, blame me not. I have not come
Through greed of gain, or aimless, poor caprice,
To break upon thy silence. I was told
By one I honour, one, of whom I think
Thou know'st the name, to seek thee in thine age.
Jochanan, once of green Bethsaida's hills,
Now elder of the Church of Ephesus,
He sends thee greeting, bids thee welcome me;
Reminds thee of the former days, of youth
Rescued from evil, of thy Lord's great love,
And adding message strange (when I in grief
And bitterness of heart was seeking help),
Bade thee to list my tale with open ears,
And, having heard it all, to tell me thine.”
“Nay, father, blame me not. I have not come
Through greed of gain, or aimless, poor caprice,
To break upon thy silence. I was told
5
Thou know'st the name, to seek thee in thine age.
Jochanan, once of green Bethsaida's hills,
Now elder of the Church of Ephesus,
He sends thee greeting, bids thee welcome me;
Reminds thee of the former days, of youth
Rescued from evil, of thy Lord's great love,
And adding message strange (when I in grief
And bitterness of heart was seeking help),
Bade thee to list my tale with open ears,
And, having heard it all, to tell me thine.”
“That name, my son,” the old man answered then,
“Recalls a vanished past. From distant years
Old faces throng around me, and the stream,
Long frozen into stillness, melts again,
And sweeps me on its current. Many a month
Has passed since last I heard it. Then they told
How he, with reverent fondness, lingered still,
As truest son to holiest mother vowed,
With her whose sorrow was like none on earth,
Till she too slept in peace, and then went forth
To bear his witness, and through many a clime
Pressed onward, till at last on Asia's shores
He landed, where the young Timotheos strove,
Unequal, with the dangers of the time,
And there abode. Since then no news has come,
And I would fain inquire how fares he now,
How meets he there the peril and the toil,
The life so strange to one whose earlier age
In quiet passed on fair Tiberias' lake,
Or Galilean hills, and now, when eld
Has come, dwells there in lordly Ephesus,
A prophet to the nations. I would know
If still that fiery temper flashes forth
Which marked him Son of Thunder, eagle eyes
Now filled with wrath, and now in ecstasy
Of silent love uplifted to the Throne;
Or have perchance the gathering shadows brought
To him, as unto me, the calm of eve,
Fair presage of the sweeter sleep of death?”
“Recalls a vanished past. From distant years
Old faces throng around me, and the stream,
Long frozen into stillness, melts again,
And sweeps me on its current. Many a month
Has passed since last I heard it. Then they told
How he, with reverent fondness, lingered still,
As truest son to holiest mother vowed,
With her whose sorrow was like none on earth,
Till she too slept in peace, and then went forth
To bear his witness, and through many a clime
Pressed onward, till at last on Asia's shores
He landed, where the young Timotheos strove,
Unequal, with the dangers of the time,
And there abode. Since then no news has come,
6
How meets he there the peril and the toil,
The life so strange to one whose earlier age
In quiet passed on fair Tiberias' lake,
Or Galilean hills, and now, when eld
Has come, dwells there in lordly Ephesus,
A prophet to the nations. I would know
If still that fiery temper flashes forth
Which marked him Son of Thunder, eagle eyes
Now filled with wrath, and now in ecstasy
Of silent love uplifted to the Throne;
Or have perchance the gathering shadows brought
To him, as unto me, the calm of eve,
Fair presage of the sweeter sleep of death?”
“What he is now,” the stranger answered then,
“My tale itself will show. In letters plain,
As in an open scroll, is written there
The man's whole being, all the pitying love,
And all the fiery wrath, and all the zeal
For God's unchanging truth. But I forget:
I linger on the threshold, and the way
Is long and weary, and the time is short.
My childhood grew in Smyrna. Happy years,
Blameless and pure, the orient dawn of life,
Passed on in silence. Mine the thrice-blest lot
To call a Christian, father, and to learn
My earliest lessons from a mother's lips
Who shared his faith and hope. And so I grew,
Not as the heathen youth, who reckless mock
The gods they worship, and with speech impure
Defile their widening thoughts, but blameless, clean
From spot of sensual taint. My voice was heard,
Clear, full, and strong to raise the lofty chant,
Or read the records of the saints of God,
Or tell the tale, that never waxes old,
The great good news of all the works of Christ.
So bright the morn, so dark and foul my sin,
Falling, as soon as I fell. The day drew near
When, trained to all the answers which the soul
With clearest conscience makes before its God,
I came to be baptised. The cleansing stream,
Bright as the river of the fount of life,
Flowed by me clear and calm. They plunged me in,
And I rose up new-born. With garments white
They clothed me, and awhile I lived as one
Who would not stain those garments by his sin,
Lest he, the teacher-priest with hoary hair,
Should sorrow o'er my fall. In earlier days,
When yet a youth, I caught his watchful eye:
My clear Hosanna drew his listening ear:
And, as of old his Master bade them bring
The little children, and with yearning love
Received them in His arms, so now thy friend,
With solemn words of blessing, laid his hands
Upon my waving hair, and gave me o'er
To Polycarp, the shepherd of our flock;
‘As one who, going on a journey, leaves
His choicest treasure to his chosen friend,
So leave I now with thee this fair young soul,
More precious than all noblest pearls of price,
For thee to watch and cherish. Take good heed
Thou fail not to restore with usury.’
“My tale itself will show. In letters plain,
As in an open scroll, is written there
The man's whole being, all the pitying love,
And all the fiery wrath, and all the zeal
For God's unchanging truth. But I forget:
I linger on the threshold, and the way
Is long and weary, and the time is short.
My childhood grew in Smyrna. Happy years,
Blameless and pure, the orient dawn of life,
Passed on in silence. Mine the thrice-blest lot
To call a Christian, father, and to learn
My earliest lessons from a mother's lips
7
Not as the heathen youth, who reckless mock
The gods they worship, and with speech impure
Defile their widening thoughts, but blameless, clean
From spot of sensual taint. My voice was heard,
Clear, full, and strong to raise the lofty chant,
Or read the records of the saints of God,
Or tell the tale, that never waxes old,
The great good news of all the works of Christ.
So bright the morn, so dark and foul my sin,
Falling, as soon as I fell. The day drew near
When, trained to all the answers which the soul
With clearest conscience makes before its God,
I came to be baptised. The cleansing stream,
Bright as the river of the fount of life,
Flowed by me clear and calm. They plunged me in,
And I rose up new-born. With garments white
They clothed me, and awhile I lived as one
Who would not stain those garments by his sin,
Lest he, the teacher-priest with hoary hair,
Should sorrow o'er my fall. In earlier days,
When yet a youth, I caught his watchful eye:
My clear Hosanna drew his listening ear:
And, as of old his Master bade them bring
The little children, and with yearning love
Received them in His arms, so now thy friend,
With solemn words of blessing, laid his hands
8
To Polycarp, the shepherd of our flock;
‘As one who, going on a journey, leaves
His choicest treasure to his chosen friend,
So leave I now with thee this fair young soul,
More precious than all noblest pearls of price,
For thee to watch and cherish. Take good heed
Thou fail not to restore with usury.’
“So parted he, and that good bishop strove
To keep his trust. He taught me, prayed with me,
And, as I told, went with me to the stream,
And brought me out of darkness into light.
But, ah! too soon the shadows gathered thick;
I wearied of that calm restraint of life,
And craved for joy, and fame, and high emprise,
And fellowship with others of mine age.
They gathered round me, and their life flowed on,
In one full stream of mirth, and song, and glee;
They drew me to their banquets; rich and bright
The red wine sparkled in the golden cups,
And wreaths of roses scented all the air,
And Tyrian couches wooed voluptuous rest;
And songs like those which once Anacreon sang
Woke echoes in the air; and dark-eyed girls
Wove the gay dance, and kindled young desire.
I listened, looked, and yielded. Bright and fresh
That life appeared. I shared those joyous feasts,
And bound myself to join, for weal or woe,
The band whose labours bore such goodly fruit:
Nor did I shrink when time stripped off the veil
That hid the inner foulness, and disclosed
A den of robbers. On each hand that seized
My hand with brother's grasp were stains of blood;
Those golden cups were torn from dying men;
Those fair young girls lured victims to their doom:
And yet I drew not back. I sought to quench
The pain of guilt by ever new desires,
The restless venture and the lawless love;
And, strong and bold as is the unbroken steed,
I gloried in my shame, and, sinning once,
Sinned on exulting, chief, supreme in guilt.
To keep his trust. He taught me, prayed with me,
And, as I told, went with me to the stream,
And brought me out of darkness into light.
But, ah! too soon the shadows gathered thick;
I wearied of that calm restraint of life,
And craved for joy, and fame, and high emprise,
And fellowship with others of mine age.
They gathered round me, and their life flowed on,
In one full stream of mirth, and song, and glee;
They drew me to their banquets; rich and bright
The red wine sparkled in the golden cups,
And wreaths of roses scented all the air,
And Tyrian couches wooed voluptuous rest;
And songs like those which once Anacreon sang
Woke echoes in the air; and dark-eyed girls
Wove the gay dance, and kindled young desire.
I listened, looked, and yielded. Bright and fresh
That life appeared. I shared those joyous feasts,
9
The band whose labours bore such goodly fruit:
Nor did I shrink when time stripped off the veil
That hid the inner foulness, and disclosed
A den of robbers. On each hand that seized
My hand with brother's grasp were stains of blood;
Those golden cups were torn from dying men;
Those fair young girls lured victims to their doom:
And yet I drew not back. I sought to quench
The pain of guilt by ever new desires,
The restless venture and the lawless love;
And, strong and bold as is the unbroken steed,
I gloried in my shame, and, sinning once,
Sinned on exulting, chief, supreme in guilt.
“So lived I: and the madness of the time
Had well-nigh blotted out the thoughts of youth,
The holy forms, and faces calm and pale
Which once had been familiar, when it chanced
That two, who owned me captain of their band,
Brought in a prisoner. Old he was, and weak;
And yet he trembled not, nor offered gold
As ransom; nor on bended knees begged life;
But, like a traveller who has reached his goal,
Like shepherd who has found his wandering sheep,
Cried out, exulting, ‘Onward! lead me on!
I seek your master: to this end am come
Five long days' journey; lead me on to him.’
They led him in: and lo! I knew at once
The great Apostle; saw the self-same face,
Transfigured with the glory of his love,
And heard the deep, full tones that once, of old,
Had spoken words of blessing. Flushed with shame,
I would have turned and fled; but he pressed on,
Forgetting age's weakness, and with cries
Eager and broken into sobs, pursued.
‘My child; mine own! why fleest thou from me,
Thy father? Old I am, and all unarmed
To do thee hurt. Oh! fear me not, my son,
But rather pity. Yet is hope of life;
I, I will make thy peace with Christ, my Lord;
I will endure thy scourging, die thy death,
And as the Lord did give His life for us,
Will offer mine for thee. Oh, stay! Oh, turn!
Believe me, Christ hath sent me.’
Had well-nigh blotted out the thoughts of youth,
The holy forms, and faces calm and pale
Which once had been familiar, when it chanced
That two, who owned me captain of their band,
Brought in a prisoner. Old he was, and weak;
And yet he trembled not, nor offered gold
As ransom; nor on bended knees begged life;
But, like a traveller who has reached his goal,
Like shepherd who has found his wandering sheep,
Cried out, exulting, ‘Onward! lead me on!
I seek your master: to this end am come
Five long days' journey; lead me on to him.’
10
The great Apostle; saw the self-same face,
Transfigured with the glory of his love,
And heard the deep, full tones that once, of old,
Had spoken words of blessing. Flushed with shame,
I would have turned and fled; but he pressed on,
Forgetting age's weakness, and with cries
Eager and broken into sobs, pursued.
‘My child; mine own! why fleest thou from me,
Thy father? Old I am, and all unarmed
To do thee hurt. Oh! fear me not, my son,
But rather pity. Yet is hope of life;
I, I will make thy peace with Christ, my Lord;
I will endure thy scourging, die thy death,
And as the Lord did give His life for us,
Will offer mine for thee. Oh, stay! Oh, turn!
Believe me, Christ hath sent me.’
“So I stood,
With eyes bent low, and, casting down my spear,
In sudden tremor shook in every limb,
And, falling at his feet, I wept for shame,
Weeping for joy as well. The evil taint
That poisoned all my life was healed; I stood
Once more renewed, baptised again with tears.
With eyes bent low, and, casting down my spear,
In sudden tremor shook in every limb,
And, falling at his feet, I wept for shame,
Weeping for joy as well. The evil taint
That poisoned all my life was healed; I stood
Once more renewed, baptised again with tears.
“The change had come. The better life went on:
But still I wavered: visions of the past
Still vexed the brain; the snake still slept within:
And ever and anon its venom ran,
Stirring the pulses of the old desire,
Benumbing holier purpose. Then the gloom
Of hopeless sadness seized me. Awful words,
‘Too late!’ ‘In vain!’ were written on my life;
And then in my distress I turned to him,
My father and my guide, and sought for help:—
‘Give me some spell to bid these visions flee;
Some charm to raise me from this blank despair.
These hands hang down, and on the upward path
These feeble knees wax weary. Is there none
Whose feet have travelled on the self-same track,
Who knows the deep recesses of our life,
The hidden things of darkness, and can give
The secret of his conquest? Thou, O saint!
The loved one of thy Lord, from earliest youth
Spotless and pure, hast never known my fall,
Nor sinned as I have sinned. With all thy love,
Thou canst not gauge my weakness; and I shrink
From vexing thee with all my tales of woe,
The haunting echoes of the sin-stained past.’
But still I wavered: visions of the past
11
And ever and anon its venom ran,
Stirring the pulses of the old desire,
Benumbing holier purpose. Then the gloom
Of hopeless sadness seized me. Awful words,
‘Too late!’ ‘In vain!’ were written on my life;
And then in my distress I turned to him,
My father and my guide, and sought for help:—
‘Give me some spell to bid these visions flee;
Some charm to raise me from this blank despair.
These hands hang down, and on the upward path
These feeble knees wax weary. Is there none
Whose feet have travelled on the self-same track,
Who knows the deep recesses of our life,
The hidden things of darkness, and can give
The secret of his conquest? Thou, O saint!
The loved one of thy Lord, from earliest youth
Spotless and pure, hast never known my fall,
Nor sinned as I have sinned. With all thy love,
Thou canst not gauge my weakness; and I shrink
From vexing thee with all my tales of woe,
The haunting echoes of the sin-stained past.’
“And thus he gave his answer. ‘Know, my son,
Thy help comes not from man. No brother's arm
Can stay thee in that conflict. Yet there lives
One who knows more than others,—one whose eyes
Have looked behind the veil, and, learning there
The mysteries of death, have seen his life
Far other than he deemed. And he, perchance,
May give thee what thou seekest. He, at last
Victorious in a strife where once he failed,
May tell the secret of his late success.
But thou must journey far: on distant shores,
Where ships bound westward bring our Asian wares
Into Massilia's harbour, dwells the man
Of whom I tell thee. Once there lived with him
Two sisters, pure and saintly, serving God,
One most in action, one in thought and prayer;
But if they live I know not. He, I trust,
Is not yet gone. Long since he pledged his word,
Whene'er he heard the summons to depart,
To send me tidings. Then my lips may tell
The wondrous tale which now the silence veils:
Till then those lips are sealed, and thou must hear
The story from himself. God speed thy way,
And when thou reachest far Massilia's port,
Go, ask for Eleazar (or, perchance,
They call him Lazarus there), and say from me,
His friend Jochanan greets him, and for love
Of his dear Lord beseeches him to hear
Thy tale, and, having heard, to tell thee his.’”
Thy help comes not from man. No brother's arm
Can stay thee in that conflict. Yet there lives
One who knows more than others,—one whose eyes
Have looked behind the veil, and, learning there
12
Far other than he deemed. And he, perchance,
May give thee what thou seekest. He, at last
Victorious in a strife where once he failed,
May tell the secret of his late success.
But thou must journey far: on distant shores,
Where ships bound westward bring our Asian wares
Into Massilia's harbour, dwells the man
Of whom I tell thee. Once there lived with him
Two sisters, pure and saintly, serving God,
One most in action, one in thought and prayer;
But if they live I know not. He, I trust,
Is not yet gone. Long since he pledged his word,
Whene'er he heard the summons to depart,
To send me tidings. Then my lips may tell
The wondrous tale which now the silence veils:
Till then those lips are sealed, and thou must hear
The story from himself. God speed thy way,
And when thou reachest far Massilia's port,
Go, ask for Eleazar (or, perchance,
They call him Lazarus there), and say from me,
His friend Jochanan greets him, and for love
Of his dear Lord beseeches him to hear
Thy tale, and, having heard, to tell thee his.’”
Then answered Eleazar. “Mine is not
The wisdom that thou seekest; yet, may-be,
From this poor, faltering tongue our God shall send
His oracle of peace. Know first, our paths
Are not the same. My guilt was not as thine;
I never knew the danger or the joy
Of that wild robber-life. My days were spent
In blameless peace and study of our law,
And frequent prayers; and all our Rabbis taught,
Who sat in Moses' seat, I learnt and did.
Of all the youth in great Jerusalem
My fame stood fairest, and the honoured seats,
Nearest the ark, in every synagogue
Were offered me of right. And yet I sinned
A seven-fold sin, corroding all the life,
More deadly far than thine, defying cure,
But for the mercy, wide and wonderful,
Of God our Father.
The wisdom that thou seekest; yet, may-be,
From this poor, faltering tongue our God shall send
13
Are not the same. My guilt was not as thine;
I never knew the danger or the joy
Of that wild robber-life. My days were spent
In blameless peace and study of our law,
And frequent prayers; and all our Rabbis taught,
Who sat in Moses' seat, I learnt and did.
Of all the youth in great Jerusalem
My fame stood fairest, and the honoured seats,
Nearest the ark, in every synagogue
Were offered me of right. And yet I sinned
A seven-fold sin, corroding all the life,
More deadly far than thine, defying cure,
But for the mercy, wide and wonderful,
Of God our Father.
How my earlier years
Were taught, I told thee. In that morn of life
My father died, and I was left of three
The youngest, yet the heir. The stored-up wealth
Of many years; rich robes of gorgeous hue,
And gems that sparkled, set in Ophir's gold,
And coins of many lands, and bonds that pledged
The borrower to the highest rate of use,
And wide-spread fields, and vineyards planted thick
With choicest vine, and barns that still o'erflowed
With corn, heaped up against a time of dearth
To sell at famine prices;—this was mine:
And those who honoured most my virtues, bowed
Yet more before my wealth.
Were taught, I told thee. In that morn of life
My father died, and I was left of three
The youngest, yet the heir. The stored-up wealth
Of many years; rich robes of gorgeous hue,
And gems that sparkled, set in Ophir's gold,
And coins of many lands, and bonds that pledged
The borrower to the highest rate of use,
And wide-spread fields, and vineyards planted thick
With choicest vine, and barns that still o'erflowed
With corn, heaped up against a time of dearth
To sell at famine prices;—this was mine:
14
Yet more before my wealth.
Yet One there was
Who bowed to neither: One whose life rebuked
Our selfish quiet. A Rabbi, like the rest,
He came among us; taught in synagogues,
And reasoned in the Temple; yet our Scribes
Disowned Him; for His youth had grown in shade,
Away from all the schools where seven long years
The sons of Hillel or of Shammai toil
Through law, tradition, comment, till at last
The Master of the Wise, with solemn state,
The key of knowledge placing in their hands,
Admits them to their office. He had learnt
His wisdom elsewhere, startling all men's minds
With mighty words, as one who, clothed with power,
Came as a prophet. And the words were strange,
And stranger yet the life. Not clad as they
In stately robes that swept the ground they trod,
With golden ring, and ivory staff, and shoes
Of costliest texture; but in sackcloth coarse,
The raiment of the poorest, and the thongs
Of leathern sandals tied across His feet,
So stood He in our presence.
Who bowed to neither: One whose life rebuked
Our selfish quiet. A Rabbi, like the rest,
He came among us; taught in synagogues,
And reasoned in the Temple; yet our Scribes
Disowned Him; for His youth had grown in shade,
Away from all the schools where seven long years
The sons of Hillel or of Shammai toil
Through law, tradition, comment, till at last
The Master of the Wise, with solemn state,
The key of knowledge placing in their hands,
Admits them to their office. He had learnt
His wisdom elsewhere, startling all men's minds
With mighty words, as one who, clothed with power,
Came as a prophet. And the words were strange,
And stranger yet the life. Not clad as they
In stately robes that swept the ground they trod,
With golden ring, and ivory staff, and shoes
Of costliest texture; but in sackcloth coarse,
The raiment of the poorest, and the thongs
Of leathern sandals tied across His feet,
So stood He in our presence.
And the themes
Were startling that He spake of. I have heard
Our wisest teachers talk in full debate,
And fill our Sanhedrim with floods of speech,
Hot, vehement, and angry; arguing still,
If men, who vowed their substance to the Lord,
Might feed their father's or their mother's age,
Or in their zeal must leave them both to starve;
Or whether on the holy Sabbath morn
The fisherman who set his nets o'ernight,
Might leave them while he rested; or, if storm
Should fall upon his flock, the shepherd's feet
Might without blame go forth upon the hills
To seek the wandering sheep. All this I heard
Day after day debated: but the man
Of whom I speak came preaching other things
Than this,—God's kingdom for the pure and meek;
Peace, love, forgiveness, to the contrite heart;
The blessings of the poor, the snares and woes
Which wealth and praise and honour bring to men.
We listened and we smiled. ‘The peasant's son
Speaks as a peasant; grudges us the pay
And honour of our calling; fain would rise
Upon our downfall.’ So they spake: and I,
In my thick darkness thought and spake as they.
Were startling that He spake of. I have heard
Our wisest teachers talk in full debate,
And fill our Sanhedrim with floods of speech,
15
If men, who vowed their substance to the Lord,
Might feed their father's or their mother's age,
Or in their zeal must leave them both to starve;
Or whether on the holy Sabbath morn
The fisherman who set his nets o'ernight,
Might leave them while he rested; or, if storm
Should fall upon his flock, the shepherd's feet
Might without blame go forth upon the hills
To seek the wandering sheep. All this I heard
Day after day debated: but the man
Of whom I speak came preaching other things
Than this,—God's kingdom for the pure and meek;
Peace, love, forgiveness, to the contrite heart;
The blessings of the poor, the snares and woes
Which wealth and praise and honour bring to men.
We listened and we smiled. ‘The peasant's son
Speaks as a peasant; grudges us the pay
And honour of our calling; fain would rise
Upon our downfall.’ So they spake: and I,
In my thick darkness thought and spake as they.
“But soon within the circle of my home
That Teacher came. I was not there that day:
But Martha to our home invited Him,
As women love to welcome honoured guests,
The Rabbis and the Scribes who wend their way
From school to school; and there with active zeal
She spread the board with dainties; bade our slaves
Be quick and active, kill the fatted calf,
And gather figs and grapes, and pour the wine
Of Eshcol, spiced with balm of Lebanon.
But Miriam, younger, gentler, sat and gazed
At that strange presence, and her heart was drawn
To listen to His speech; and he spake on,
Discoursing of the Kingdom, and the Love
Embracing all, and Faith that wins the crown,
And leaving all for God. And she sat there,
Still listening, while her sister laboured on,
Vexed, wroth, and weary; and at last, with words
Of murmur, spake her grievance: ‘Care'st thou not,
O Sir! that I through all the noon-tide heat
Am slaving for Thy sake; while she sits there,
Calm and at ease, beneath the sheltering vine,
And dreams and listens?’ But the Lord replied:
‘Ah! Martha, Martha! vexed with many things,
Troubled and worn art thou. But one alone
Is needful; and that one good part is hers
Who hears from me the words of endless life.’
That Teacher came. I was not there that day:
But Martha to our home invited Him,
As women love to welcome honoured guests,
The Rabbis and the Scribes who wend their way
From school to school; and there with active zeal
16
Be quick and active, kill the fatted calf,
And gather figs and grapes, and pour the wine
Of Eshcol, spiced with balm of Lebanon.
But Miriam, younger, gentler, sat and gazed
At that strange presence, and her heart was drawn
To listen to His speech; and he spake on,
Discoursing of the Kingdom, and the Love
Embracing all, and Faith that wins the crown,
And leaving all for God. And she sat there,
Still listening, while her sister laboured on,
Vexed, wroth, and weary; and at last, with words
Of murmur, spake her grievance: ‘Care'st thou not,
O Sir! that I through all the noon-tide heat
Am slaving for Thy sake; while she sits there,
Calm and at ease, beneath the sheltering vine,
And dreams and listens?’ But the Lord replied:
‘Ah! Martha, Martha! vexed with many things,
Troubled and worn art thou. But one alone
Is needful; and that one good part is hers
Who hears from me the words of endless life.’
“I heard the tale, returning to my home:
But still it changed me not. Some haunting doubts
Rose up unbidden; but I crushed them down,
Half mocking at myself and half at Him,
As vexed by mystic dreams which stronger souls
Pass by unheeding.
But still it changed me not. Some haunting doubts
Rose up unbidden; but I crushed them down,
Half mocking at myself and half at Him,
As vexed by mystic dreams which stronger souls
Pass by unheeding.
17
“So it chanced, one day,
We stood and listened with the meaning smile
And whispered taunt, as men who watch the words
Of some wild zealot, when he speaks again,
Still harping on the thoughts that eat his soul,
The threadbare topics of his thrice-told tale.
When, lo! He told a tale we had not heard:
And as He told it, with His eye full fixed
On me, He spake my name. I turned, and gazed
In wonder, for it was not thus His wont
With names to deck His stories. Stranger still,
He told of one unnamed, whose life, like mine,
Was rich in all the joys that wealth can give,
Fine linen, purple, sumptuous feasts and wine:
And he, when life was over, passed at once
Into the outer darkness and the flames
That burn in Hades; while for him who bore
My name there oped the gates of Paradise,
And angels bore him to his blissful home.
But note the wonder of that mystic tale:
The Lazarus who lay on Abraham's breast,
The Lazarus whom angels bore on high,
On earth lay crouching at the rich man's gate,
A beggar full of sores. I felt the sting
Of that concealed rebuke. ‘Is this,’ I asked,
‘The crown of true obedience? Must I die,
I, Eleazar, honoured, blameless, rich,
And pass to torments? If I seek to gain
The fair, green fields of Eden, must I live
As Eleazar, homeless, friendless, poor,
The dogs my only comforters?’ And then,
What meant that strange conclusion: ‘If the law
Avail not, nor the prophets, who will hear,
Though one returning from the dead should speak?
Had we not listened to the law of God,
Who read it day and night? What need had we
Of new persuasion? If the thing might be,
That rising from the dead, what more could come
Than what we knew already? Every bound
Of Heaven and Hell our scribes had mapped and planned,
As men mark out the region of their home,
Assigning that to these, their friends, themselves,
And this to heathens, or Samaria's sons,
Or hated rivals.’
We stood and listened with the meaning smile
And whispered taunt, as men who watch the words
Of some wild zealot, when he speaks again,
Still harping on the thoughts that eat his soul,
The threadbare topics of his thrice-told tale.
When, lo! He told a tale we had not heard:
And as He told it, with His eye full fixed
On me, He spake my name. I turned, and gazed
In wonder, for it was not thus His wont
With names to deck His stories. Stranger still,
He told of one unnamed, whose life, like mine,
Was rich in all the joys that wealth can give,
Fine linen, purple, sumptuous feasts and wine:
And he, when life was over, passed at once
Into the outer darkness and the flames
That burn in Hades; while for him who bore
My name there oped the gates of Paradise,
And angels bore him to his blissful home.
But note the wonder of that mystic tale:
The Lazarus who lay on Abraham's breast,
The Lazarus whom angels bore on high,
On earth lay crouching at the rich man's gate,
A beggar full of sores. I felt the sting
Of that concealed rebuke. ‘Is this,’ I asked,
‘The crown of true obedience? Must I die,
I, Eleazar, honoured, blameless, rich,
And pass to torments? If I seek to gain
18
As Eleazar, homeless, friendless, poor,
The dogs my only comforters?’ And then,
What meant that strange conclusion: ‘If the law
Avail not, nor the prophets, who will hear,
Though one returning from the dead should speak?
Had we not listened to the law of God,
Who read it day and night? What need had we
Of new persuasion? If the thing might be,
That rising from the dead, what more could come
Than what we knew already? Every bound
Of Heaven and Hell our scribes had mapped and planned,
As men mark out the region of their home,
Assigning that to these, their friends, themselves,
And this to heathens, or Samaria's sons,
Or hated rivals.’
“So I reasoned still,
And turned away in anger. But the dream
Pursued me; night and day it filled my soul;
The speechless terrors banished all my rest;
I panted after peace. And so I came
Once more to hear, not now with curling lip,
And brow uplifted, but with eager step,
Low bending down, (I, Lazarus, the rich,
The ruler, bowing at His feet who came
From Nazareth, the carpenter!) I sought
With words of studied honour, on my knees,
To gain the peace I needed. ‘What good thing,
O thou good teacher, wilt Thou bid me do,
That I may call the Life Eternal mine?’
I asked in earnest, but it pleased Him not,
That ready homage. ‘Why speakest thou of good?
Why comes that word so lightly from thy lips,
When none is good but God? If true thy search
For Life Eternal, keep His holy Laws,
The few great words which in thine earliest years
Thy mother taught thee.’ Then, as one who gives
A child his lesson, one by one He spake
The precepts which our Jewish boys repeat,
As of the Second Table. I, amazed,
Looked still for something more. Had I for this
Come, fighting down my pride, to climb the heights
Of truth and wisdom, willing to accept
New rules of fasting, or new forms of prayer,
Or with the Nazarite's vow to cleanse my way?
And now the Teacher sent me back to school,
To take my place there on its lowest form,
With boys of ten? So, not without a touch
Of anger and reproof, I answer made,
‘All these are common and familiar things,
And I have kept them from my earliest youth.
What lack I yet to make my life complete?’
Then, with a smile half-sad, as one who sees
In some high-minded, noble boy the germs
Of future evil, so He looked on me
With wistful pity. And he kissed my brow,
As Rabbis do with scholars whom they love,
And with a subtle tone of something more
Than met the ear, went on. ‘Ah! this is well;
But yet thou lackest one thing. Sell thy goods,
Give to the poor, and, taking up thy cross,
Follow thou me, and thou. be sure, shalt have
Treasure in Heaven.’
And turned away in anger. But the dream
Pursued me; night and day it filled my soul;
The speechless terrors banished all my rest;
I panted after peace. And so I came
Once more to hear, not now with curling lip,
And brow uplifted, but with eager step,
Low bending down, (I, Lazarus, the rich,
The ruler, bowing at His feet who came
From Nazareth, the carpenter!) I sought
With words of studied honour, on my knees,
19
O thou good teacher, wilt Thou bid me do,
That I may call the Life Eternal mine?’
I asked in earnest, but it pleased Him not,
That ready homage. ‘Why speakest thou of good?
Why comes that word so lightly from thy lips,
When none is good but God? If true thy search
For Life Eternal, keep His holy Laws,
The few great words which in thine earliest years
Thy mother taught thee.’ Then, as one who gives
A child his lesson, one by one He spake
The precepts which our Jewish boys repeat,
As of the Second Table. I, amazed,
Looked still for something more. Had I for this
Come, fighting down my pride, to climb the heights
Of truth and wisdom, willing to accept
New rules of fasting, or new forms of prayer,
Or with the Nazarite's vow to cleanse my way?
And now the Teacher sent me back to school,
To take my place there on its lowest form,
With boys of ten? So, not without a touch
Of anger and reproof, I answer made,
‘All these are common and familiar things,
And I have kept them from my earliest youth.
What lack I yet to make my life complete?’
Then, with a smile half-sad, as one who sees
In some high-minded, noble boy the germs
Of future evil, so He looked on me
20
As Rabbis do with scholars whom they love,
And with a subtle tone of something more
Than met the ear, went on. ‘Ah! this is well;
But yet thou lackest one thing. Sell thy goods,
Give to the poor, and, taking up thy cross,
Follow thou me, and thou. be sure, shalt have
Treasure in Heaven.’
“I heard, dismayed and sad,
The words that came like lightning o'er my soul,
And blasted all my hopes. To give up all,
The silver, and the garments, and the lands,
And be as those who by the Temple-gates
Sit asking alms;—would nothing less suffice,
No copious tithes of corn, and wine, and oil,
Extending to the cummin and the mint;
No bounteous offerings to the Corban chest,
So large that men should spread with trumpet voice
My praises through the land? I never dreamt
Of such a work as this; and yet beyond
That depth His words disclosed a lower deep.
Not poverty alone, but shame and woe;
To bear my cross, as I have sometimes seen
The sad procession pass our city's gates,
Each rebel-robber bearing on his back
The beam on which to hang. Is this the King,
The Son of David, the expected Christ,
Who comes to give us freedom? Am I called
To follow Him in that?
The words that came like lightning o'er my soul,
And blasted all my hopes. To give up all,
The silver, and the garments, and the lands,
And be as those who by the Temple-gates
Sit asking alms;—would nothing less suffice,
No copious tithes of corn, and wine, and oil,
Extending to the cummin and the mint;
No bounteous offerings to the Corban chest,
So large that men should spread with trumpet voice
My praises through the land? I never dreamt
Of such a work as this; and yet beyond
That depth His words disclosed a lower deep.
Not poverty alone, but shame and woe;
To bear my cross, as I have sometimes seen
The sad procession pass our city's gates,
Each rebel-robber bearing on his back
The beam on which to hang. Is this the King,
The Son of David, the expected Christ,
21
To follow Him in that?
“I turned aside
With brow o'erclouded, and with downcast eyes
That told of inward conflict, half-impelled
To yield to Him whose words had thrilled my soul,
Half-shrinking from the sacrifice He claimed.
Slowly I turned, and as I went my way,
I heard that clear, calm voice in saddest tones,
‘How hardly shall the rich man find out God,
And enter into Heaven!’ And then a sound
Of murmured questions, and, at last, once more,
The same low sweetness, as of one who prays,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God;’
And then I heard no more.
With brow o'erclouded, and with downcast eyes
That told of inward conflict, half-impelled
To yield to Him whose words had thrilled my soul,
Half-shrinking from the sacrifice He claimed.
Slowly I turned, and as I went my way,
I heard that clear, calm voice in saddest tones,
‘How hardly shall the rich man find out God,
And enter into Heaven!’ And then a sound
Of murmured questions, and, at last, once more,
The same low sweetness, as of one who prays,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God;’
And then I heard no more.
“Ere many days
A fever laid me low: through all my veins
Rushed the hot blood that filled with spectral forms
The darkness round me. What availed it then
To count the coin, the garments, and the bonds?
Those golden wine-cups would not quench my thirst;
Those gems showed hideous on my purpled skin;
The spikenard ointment served no more for feasts,
Breathing its odorous breath: they kept it back
For that last use when o'er the senseless dead,
All stiff and cold, they pour the rich perfume.
So sharp the fever that it smote me down,
Left me no power to think, or will, or pray,
One painful stupor till its course was run;
And round me came the mourners, wailing loud,
(The best were hired in all Jerusalem,
As suited to my rank) and raised their cries,
‘Ah me! my brother, who will comfort now
Thy sisters and thy friends? Ah me! Ah me!
The God of Abraham takes thee to thy place
In Abraham's bosom,’ and with claspèd hands,
Beating their breasts, they went on, hour by hour,
‘Alas! Ah me! Who now will be our joy?
Our eyes' desire is taken at a stroke.’
And then the Rabbis gathered, some who came
Because they loved me, some in pride of state,
To show that they too knew me, and they spake
Of all my many virtues: ‘What a life
Cut off before its time! In ten years' space
He might have been, of all our Sanhedrim,
Held most in honour!’—Then, with 'bated breath,
‘But after all, what is, perchance, is best.
He had his weakness, half-inclined to own
That half-mad Nazarene. Those sisters there
Have made no secret of it. Rumour tells
They had Him to their house. Well, let us hope
This warning blow may bring them back to us.’
So spake they, but they knew not all the while
I heard them in Gehenna. In mine ears
Their praise was hateful, and that ‘half-inclined’
Came floating to me as the knell of doom,
The witness of my guilt. But ‘half-inclined!’
Oh! had that ‘half’ been whole I had not been
In that thick darkness, wailing bitterly.
How long I lay I knew not, for the lost
Count not their time by days, and months, and years,
But one long, dreary, everlasting Now
Is ever with them. Every thought of sin
Becomes a drear abyss of boundless woe,
And every act, a moment's sudden heat,
Expands into an æon. All my life
Lay spread before me as an open scroll;
The earliest lust, the boyish greed of praise,
The false dissemblance, and the speech unkind,
These came upon me from the abysmal depths
Where Memory's fountains pour their seething floods,
And whelmed me in their torrent. Ah! my son,
If 'twere for this Jochanan sent thee here,
Heed thou my words. The man who once has looked
Behind the veil which severs death from life,
He would not venture, all the world to win,
One single thought against the Eternal Law.
We know not now the power of every soul
To be its own tormentor. Here on earth
We cheat ourselves with comfort. Easy days,
And pleasant feasts, and praise of many friends,
These dull our thoughts. Amid the din of arms,
Or strife of sects, or words of hot debate,
Or painter's art, or skill of poet's speech,
Or sweetest music, we forget our guilt,
And drug our spirits to a death-like sleep:
With loud-toned prayers, and anthems full and clear,
We drown the inward voice: the scribe, self-blind,
Examining his conscience, shuts out God.
But there no shadows come between the soul
And that consuming holiness of God:
There, face to face, we stand before the Light
That lighteth all men, and its glorious rays,
The joy and bliss of all who love the Truth,
Become, for those who hate, the Eternal Fire:
And Memory dwells not there on former years,
As now, with pleasant thoughts of pleasant sins,
But preying on the spirit evermore,
Lives on and on, the worm that dieth not.
A fever laid me low: through all my veins
Rushed the hot blood that filled with spectral forms
The darkness round me. What availed it then
To count the coin, the garments, and the bonds?
Those golden wine-cups would not quench my thirst;
Those gems showed hideous on my purpled skin;
The spikenard ointment served no more for feasts,
Breathing its odorous breath: they kept it back
For that last use when o'er the senseless dead,
All stiff and cold, they pour the rich perfume.
So sharp the fever that it smote me down,
Left me no power to think, or will, or pray,
22
And round me came the mourners, wailing loud,
(The best were hired in all Jerusalem,
As suited to my rank) and raised their cries,
‘Ah me! my brother, who will comfort now
Thy sisters and thy friends? Ah me! Ah me!
The God of Abraham takes thee to thy place
In Abraham's bosom,’ and with claspèd hands,
Beating their breasts, they went on, hour by hour,
‘Alas! Ah me! Who now will be our joy?
Our eyes' desire is taken at a stroke.’
And then the Rabbis gathered, some who came
Because they loved me, some in pride of state,
To show that they too knew me, and they spake
Of all my many virtues: ‘What a life
Cut off before its time! In ten years' space
He might have been, of all our Sanhedrim,
Held most in honour!’—Then, with 'bated breath,
‘But after all, what is, perchance, is best.
He had his weakness, half-inclined to own
That half-mad Nazarene. Those sisters there
Have made no secret of it. Rumour tells
They had Him to their house. Well, let us hope
This warning blow may bring them back to us.’
So spake they, but they knew not all the while
I heard them in Gehenna. In mine ears
Their praise was hateful, and that ‘half-inclined’
Came floating to me as the knell of doom,
23
Oh! had that ‘half’ been whole I had not been
In that thick darkness, wailing bitterly.
How long I lay I knew not, for the lost
Count not their time by days, and months, and years,
But one long, dreary, everlasting Now
Is ever with them. Every thought of sin
Becomes a drear abyss of boundless woe,
And every act, a moment's sudden heat,
Expands into an æon. All my life
Lay spread before me as an open scroll;
The earliest lust, the boyish greed of praise,
The false dissemblance, and the speech unkind,
These came upon me from the abysmal depths
Where Memory's fountains pour their seething floods,
And whelmed me in their torrent. Ah! my son,
If 'twere for this Jochanan sent thee here,
Heed thou my words. The man who once has looked
Behind the veil which severs death from life,
He would not venture, all the world to win,
One single thought against the Eternal Law.
We know not now the power of every soul
To be its own tormentor. Here on earth
We cheat ourselves with comfort. Easy days,
And pleasant feasts, and praise of many friends,
24
Or strife of sects, or words of hot debate,
Or painter's art, or skill of poet's speech,
Or sweetest music, we forget our guilt,
And drug our spirits to a death-like sleep:
With loud-toned prayers, and anthems full and clear,
We drown the inward voice: the scribe, self-blind,
Examining his conscience, shuts out God.
But there no shadows come between the soul
And that consuming holiness of God:
There, face to face, we stand before the Light
That lighteth all men, and its glorious rays,
The joy and bliss of all who love the Truth,
Become, for those who hate, the Eternal Fire:
And Memory dwells not there on former years,
As now, with pleasant thoughts of pleasant sins,
But preying on the spirit evermore,
Lives on and on, the worm that dieth not.
“So was I, hopeless in my utter woe,
When, breaking through the silence of the grave,
Through all the darkness of that drear abyss,
The same clear voice cried, ‘Lazarus, come forth;
And once again I woke, as from a dream,
Looked out once more upon the world of life,
And swathed in grave-clothes, head and hands and feet,
Stood there all wondering, looking out on Him
Whose word had called me. Still His cheeks were wet
With tears of love, of tenderness, of grief;
The sounds of prayer still trembled on the lips;
The eyes were bright, as when the angels look
With joy from Heaven on one repentant soul.
And then I saw it all, the love, the power,
The wisdom, that had guided all the past.
In that strange story which had roused my fears
No Lazarus came to tell the secret things
That lie behind the veil, but now on earth
There stood a Lazarus who had looked on death,
And lived to bear his witness.
When, breaking through the silence of the grave,
Through all the darkness of that drear abyss,
The same clear voice cried, ‘Lazarus, come forth;
And once again I woke, as from a dream,
Looked out once more upon the world of life,
And swathed in grave-clothes, head and hands and feet,
Stood there all wondering, looking out on Him
25
With tears of love, of tenderness, of grief;
The sounds of prayer still trembled on the lips;
The eyes were bright, as when the angels look
With joy from Heaven on one repentant soul.
And then I saw it all, the love, the power,
The wisdom, that had guided all the past.
In that strange story which had roused my fears
No Lazarus came to tell the secret things
That lie behind the veil, but now on earth
There stood a Lazarus who had looked on death,
And lived to bear his witness.
“Need I tell,
My son, the further story of my life?
The change was wrought. I stayed no longer now;
But bore at once the Cross. They sought my life;
I lived each day as still expecting death;
And gave up all I had, and fed the poor
In one great feast, to which the Master came,
With all His followers. Martha showed her love,
Still active, eager, but by love made free
From all her many cares, and Miriam now,
Her joy and gladness rushing into act,
Brought forth her precious ointment, costly store,
That might have paid a labourer all his wage
Throughout the circling year, and poured it out
Upon the Lord's dear feet. I spake not then;
Upon my lips the seal of silence lay,
And still the fear of death was on my soul.
‘Is Hades conquered?’ I had asked when first
I looked on light anew, ‘or must I die
The common death of all men?’ Could I smile,
Hearing I stood, death's terrors still in sight,
As men may smile who have not crossed the stream?
Not so, but thought and vigil, prayer and fast,
These filled the hours, and evermore I sought
To know how He who saved me lived His life,
Not with the crowd, or teaching in the streets,
Or breaking bread with friends, but when alone
He with His Father communed secretly.
And one clear moonlight night I followed Him
To that calm garden of Gethsemane,
Where oft He made resort. All now was gone,
My land, my gold, my robes; I kept back nought
But the few weeds I wore, and still I stored,
As precious relic of a priceless boon,
The winding-sheet of linen, white and clean,
In which they wrapt me. At the midnight hour,
Casting that sheet around me, I stole on,
From Bethany and over Olivet,
And neared the garden. As the moonlight shone,
I saw the three, the foremost of the Twelve,
Weary and spent with toil, stretched out in sleep,
As men too tired to watch, too weak to pray.
But He was there, the pale face paler seen,
As on it fell the moonbeams, and the sweat
Dropt down from brow and face in agony;
And as I nearer drew, I heard the cry
(Strange echo of the words once heard before),
‘With Thee, O Father, all is possible.’
And then, as yielding up His will to God's,
He left it all to that Almighty Love
To give or to refuse.
My son, the further story of my life?
The change was wrought. I stayed no longer now;
But bore at once the Cross. They sought my life;
I lived each day as still expecting death;
And gave up all I had, and fed the poor
In one great feast, to which the Master came,
With all His followers. Martha showed her love,
Still active, eager, but by love made free
From all her many cares, and Miriam now,
Her joy and gladness rushing into act,
Brought forth her precious ointment, costly store,
That might have paid a labourer all his wage
Throughout the circling year, and poured it out
Upon the Lord's dear feet. I spake not then;
26
And still the fear of death was on my soul.
‘Is Hades conquered?’ I had asked when first
I looked on light anew, ‘or must I die
The common death of all men?’ Could I smile,
Hearing I stood, death's terrors still in sight,
As men may smile who have not crossed the stream?
Not so, but thought and vigil, prayer and fast,
These filled the hours, and evermore I sought
To know how He who saved me lived His life,
Not with the crowd, or teaching in the streets,
Or breaking bread with friends, but when alone
He with His Father communed secretly.
And one clear moonlight night I followed Him
To that calm garden of Gethsemane,
Where oft He made resort. All now was gone,
My land, my gold, my robes; I kept back nought
But the few weeds I wore, and still I stored,
As precious relic of a priceless boon,
The winding-sheet of linen, white and clean,
In which they wrapt me. At the midnight hour,
Casting that sheet around me, I stole on,
From Bethany and over Olivet,
And neared the garden. As the moonlight shone,
I saw the three, the foremost of the Twelve,
Weary and spent with toil, stretched out in sleep,
As men too tired to watch, too weak to pray.
But He was there, the pale face paler seen,
27
Dropt down from brow and face in agony;
And as I nearer drew, I heard the cry
(Strange echo of the words once heard before),
‘With Thee, O Father, all is possible.’
And then, as yielding up His will to God's,
He left it all to that Almighty Love
To give or to refuse.
“What more I saw
I need not tell. Thou know'st it in the tale
Which every Church receives, the shame, the scourge,
The cross, the death, the burial, and the morn
Of that bright Rising. Yet there dwells with me
One moment in my life I may not pass.
As I stood listening, from the Kedron vale
The crowd streamed forth, with torches, clubs, and swords,
And thronging through the garden seized on Him,
And led Him captive. The eight, and then the three,
Alarmed, confused, forsook their Lord and fled.
I followed breathless, but the moonlight's gleam,
Falling on that white robe, betrayed my form;
And, seeing in me one they sought to slay,
They seized me also, caught the linen sheet,
And when I left it in their hands and fled,
And plunged into the darkness, there I knelt
(The cold moon falling on the olive boughs
To which I fled for shelter) naked, poor,
Hunted, alone. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘there is hope;
The world has left me homeless as my Lord;
No single rag of all his former state
Now cleaves to Eleazar.’
I need not tell. Thou know'st it in the tale
Which every Church receives, the shame, the scourge,
The cross, the death, the burial, and the morn
Of that bright Rising. Yet there dwells with me
One moment in my life I may not pass.
As I stood listening, from the Kedron vale
The crowd streamed forth, with torches, clubs, and swords,
And thronging through the garden seized on Him,
And led Him captive. The eight, and then the three,
Alarmed, confused, forsook their Lord and fled.
I followed breathless, but the moonlight's gleam,
Falling on that white robe, betrayed my form;
And, seeing in me one they sought to slay,
They seized me also, caught the linen sheet,
And when I left it in their hands and fled,
And plunged into the darkness, there I knelt
(The cold moon falling on the olive boughs
28
Hunted, alone. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘there is hope;
The world has left me homeless as my Lord;
No single rag of all his former state
Now cleaves to Eleazar.’
“Since that hour
Full fifty years have passed; yet still I live
As one who asks for this day's bread alone.
I toil, and am content. Through all the change
Of life I bear my cross, and follow Him:
On distant shores, amid an alien race,
My brethren's foes, I linger out my days.
My sisters did their work, and fell asleep,
And I am left alone; yet not alone,
For Christ, my Lord, is with me. Thou, my son,
Hast seen me how I live; and I have told
The tale Jochanan bade thee ask to hear.
And now the stars are shining, and mine eyes
With age and thought are weary: and lest I,
Like those three sleepers in Gethsemane,
Should fail to watch one hour, I bid thee go.
Watch thou and pray; and if to-morrow's sun
Rise on thy soul with healing on its wings,
Or if there dwells aught yet upon thy soul
Wherein thou seekest counsel, come once more
And open out thine heart; and I will speak,
As Christ has taught me through these circling years,
The secrets of His truth. His peace be thine!”
Full fifty years have passed; yet still I live
As one who asks for this day's bread alone.
I toil, and am content. Through all the change
Of life I bear my cross, and follow Him:
On distant shores, amid an alien race,
My brethren's foes, I linger out my days.
My sisters did their work, and fell asleep,
And I am left alone; yet not alone,
For Christ, my Lord, is with me. Thou, my son,
Hast seen me how I live; and I have told
The tale Jochanan bade thee ask to hear.
And now the stars are shining, and mine eyes
With age and thought are weary: and lest I,
Like those three sleepers in Gethsemane,
Should fail to watch one hour, I bid thee go.
Watch thou and pray; and if to-morrow's sun
Rise on thy soul with healing on its wings,
Or if there dwells aught yet upon thy soul
Wherein thou seekest counsel, come once more
And open out thine heart; and I will speak,
As Christ has taught me through these circling years,
The secrets of His truth. His peace be thine!”
29
So parted they, the old man and the youth:
One turning to his skull, his cross, his book;
One wandering through the strange bewildering town.
And over all the moon poured golden light,
And fair Massilia's waters slumbered calm;
And fairer yet and calmer were the thoughts
That dawned, faint-gleaming, on the wanderer's soul;
But as the moonlight, flecked and dimmed with clouds,
Shone on the waters rippled by the breeze,
So o'er his spirit passed opposing moods,
Now bright with hope, now half perplexed with fear,
Now clear in faith, now clouded o'er in doubt.
One turning to his skull, his cross, his book;
One wandering through the strange bewildering town.
And over all the moon poured golden light,
And fair Massilia's waters slumbered calm;
And fairer yet and calmer were the thoughts
That dawned, faint-gleaming, on the wanderer's soul;
But as the moonlight, flecked and dimmed with clouds,
Shone on the waters rippled by the breeze,
So o'er his spirit passed opposing moods,
Now bright with hope, now half perplexed with fear,
Now clear in faith, now clouded o'er in doubt.
April, 1864.
30
II.
The morning came, and then they met once more,The grey-haired saint, whose second path of life
Was near its end, and he, in youth's full strength,
The wanderer seeking truth, and light, and help.
They both had told their story, and their hearts
Were opened, and as face doth answer face,
So talked they freely, mirroring the thoughts,
Each of the other. And the younger spake,
“Thy words, my father, dwell within my soul,
Like fire that burns and cleanses. For myself
The path is clear, the way that leads to God,
Through tears, and dread, and darkness: evermore
To bear within my heart His perfect Law,
His Word that cleaves the secret depths of life;
To conquer self, renounce the glittering world,
My life being hid with Christ. And, if alone
I stood, or strove, as those who run their race,
To win my prize, regardless of the rest,
31
Massilia's streets, far other thoughts than these
Came thronging on me. From this holy shade
Wherein thou liv'st I passed to Babel's glare,
Mad songs of riot, words of shameless lust,
Foul misery plunging into fouler mire,
Hard-toiling men, their day of labour done,
Sleeping brute-sleep, to whom no vision comes
Of life full-orbed, or God's o'erstretching Love;
And, as I looked and thought, the question grew
Distinct and clear, and would not be denied,
Which never till thy word had changed my life
I dreamt of asking. These poor, wandering sheep,
What have they done that they should pass away
To those dark shadows of the drear abyss?
They do the world's rough work, they delve and toil,
None caring for their souls, and pass away
Without one ray of light that falls on us,
Without one hope that looks beyond the grave.
These harlot-girls who flaunt along the streets
With pencilled brows, and filmy, saffron vests,
And warbled song, and winning, wanton dance;
These boys with gleaming eyes and golden hair,
Their waving locks all wet with odorous nard,
Who, knowing not the baseness, stain their youth;
These Gauls and Thracians, torn from distant shores,
Herding, like brutes, by hundreds in their dens,
32
That throng the marts, the ships, the camps of men,
What future lies before them? Must I think
That one great torrent sweeps them on to Hell,
That they who never heard the name of God,
Nor knew His righteous will, shall first awake
To that clear knowledge in the hopeless fires?
I look around, and here and there I see
One lonely soul who struggles after truth:
But, far and wide, the thousands live and die,
Unknowing of the greatness of their lives;
And when I travel o'er the tracts of space,
Or look behind me on the expanse of time,
The same drear vision meets me. And I ask,
‘Can this be all that Christ has come to win?
Is this the bruising of the serpent's head?
Is this the triumph of the victor's car?
Sees He in this the travail of His soul,
And with it rests content?’ I spake but now
Of men and women who have lived their lives;
But what of all the myriad souls that pass
Their few short hours on earth, and then are gone?
That child of harlot-mother, born in sin
And left to perish;—has God's gift of life
For those few pain-fraught moments brought on it
The woe that runs through all the endless years?
Or if you tell me that His Love is wide,
33
Cleansed by the healing waters, then I ask,
Can all the future age of woe or weal
Turn on that chance which they nor know nor care
To ask for, or refuse? Or if, once more,
You tell me of a Love diviner still,
Embracing all, baptized or infidel,
To whom death comes as infant's gentle sleep,
Then subtle questioning brings the doubt again;
‘If they are safe within the arms of God,
Through all the eternal ages, sure to fail,
If childhood's life pass on to conscious will,
Why should not then a mother's tenderest love,
Stifling her nature's instinct, crush the life
That from her draws its nurture, prizing more
That endless bliss than all the smiles and tears,
The waxen touches and the clinging grasp,
Which joy a mother's heart? If this be true,
Our hearts should leap for joy and give God thanks,
When harlots slay the issue of their shame,
When nations, sunk in darkness, cast their babes
A prey to dogs and vultures, when the plague
Sweeps o'er the earth and lays its thousands low,
Or earth's deep fires burst forth from inward depths,
And pour their boiling torrents, as of late,
On fair Pompeii down Vesevus' slope,
Enshrouding in that tomb of burning dust
The mothers and their children.’ Woe is me!
34
The thoughts that haunt me. In thine eyes, perchance,
They seem too bold. They trespass on the ground
Where men must walk in darkness. But to thee
I open all my heart, for thou hast seen
What others have not. Thou canst meet my doubts,
And tell me of Gehenna; thou must know
The armies of the lost, and of the saved;
And therefore blame me not, if I, in words
All rough and hasty, bring those doubts to thee.”
He ceased; and then the old man looked on him,
Not with uplifted hands, and brow that told
Of holy horror, but with wistful thought,
Admiring, pitying, loving. And he spake:
“Fear not, my son, to tell me all thy soul;
Thy doubt outspoken may perchance pass on
To purer faith. The fault that saps the life
Is doubt half-crushed, half-veiled; the lip-assent
Which finds no echo in the heart of hearts;
The secret lie, which, conscious of its guilt,
Atones for falsehood by intenser zeal.
These questionings of thine, I know them all,
Know too they come but as the signs of life:
Our Rabbis heed them not: they read and pray,
Debating in their synagogues and schools,
Detecting this man's faults, and grudging that
The honour he has earned. They little care
What happens to the crowd. They look with scorn
Upon that crowd, ‘the people of the earth’;
Filling high places at the feasts of men,
They count on higher at the feast of God,
And that suffices. But from thee, my son,
Far be that poor content: speak out thy thought
As Abraham spake it, when he asked of God,
‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’
As Job, when, smarting in his sore distress,
He claimed acquittal. I condemn thee not:
And yet, my son, I cannot grant thy prayer;
I cannot solve the problems of thy soul.
In those few days I passed beyond the veil
I learnt to know myself, to fear and love
The Lord my Maker; but that lore sufficed;
I could not rise to yon supernal height
Whence all the wonder of the world is seen,
And all the ages in their ordered plan.
That secret dawns not on the new-born life;
The mystery of God remains uncleared;
Into these things the angels seek to look,
Yet see not far. Let others dream their dreams,
Map out the world of Hades, mark the lines,
As though they knew the country, I, for one,
Must own I know it not, and if I speak
As one whose eyes are opened, know, the Light
Shines on me from within. No fearful forms
Of spectral horrors float before mine eyes,
But Christ, my Lord, has led me on to truth;
His Spirit quickens all my power to see.
And yet, my son, it may be that thou ask'st
Not wisely of this matter. I have known,
Ere now, that craving. Many eyes have looked
Across the abyss, and many lips have asked,
With varying accents, ‘Are the saved ones few?’
Some seek that knowledge in their pride of heart,
As finding greater glory in the thought
Of crowds beneath them, failing where they win;
And some in selfish fear lest place should fail
For them in heaven; and some, my son, like thee,
In wistful love and pity. But to none
Is the full answer given: and, evermore,
The veil, uplifted for a moment's space,
Falls once again, and hides the rest from view.
So was it once when Christ our Master taught,
And one came eager, asking as thou ask'st,
And answer found: ‘Strive thou to enter in,
For strait the gate and narrow is the way
That lead to life.’ So was it once again,
When Cephas, asking of Jochanan's fate,
Received his answer, ‘What is that to thee?’
He bids us walk by faith and not by sight;
He bids us trust His all-embracing love,
His Father's righteous purpose.
Not with uplifted hands, and brow that told
Of holy horror, but with wistful thought,
Admiring, pitying, loving. And he spake:
“Fear not, my son, to tell me all thy soul;
Thy doubt outspoken may perchance pass on
To purer faith. The fault that saps the life
Is doubt half-crushed, half-veiled; the lip-assent
Which finds no echo in the heart of hearts;
The secret lie, which, conscious of its guilt,
Atones for falsehood by intenser zeal.
These questionings of thine, I know them all,
Know too they come but as the signs of life:
Our Rabbis heed them not: they read and pray,
35
Detecting this man's faults, and grudging that
The honour he has earned. They little care
What happens to the crowd. They look with scorn
Upon that crowd, ‘the people of the earth’;
Filling high places at the feasts of men,
They count on higher at the feast of God,
And that suffices. But from thee, my son,
Far be that poor content: speak out thy thought
As Abraham spake it, when he asked of God,
‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’
As Job, when, smarting in his sore distress,
He claimed acquittal. I condemn thee not:
And yet, my son, I cannot grant thy prayer;
I cannot solve the problems of thy soul.
In those few days I passed beyond the veil
I learnt to know myself, to fear and love
The Lord my Maker; but that lore sufficed;
I could not rise to yon supernal height
Whence all the wonder of the world is seen,
And all the ages in their ordered plan.
That secret dawns not on the new-born life;
The mystery of God remains uncleared;
Into these things the angels seek to look,
Yet see not far. Let others dream their dreams,
Map out the world of Hades, mark the lines,
As though they knew the country, I, for one,
Must own I know it not, and if I speak
36
Shines on me from within. No fearful forms
Of spectral horrors float before mine eyes,
But Christ, my Lord, has led me on to truth;
His Spirit quickens all my power to see.
And yet, my son, it may be that thou ask'st
Not wisely of this matter. I have known,
Ere now, that craving. Many eyes have looked
Across the abyss, and many lips have asked,
With varying accents, ‘Are the saved ones few?’
Some seek that knowledge in their pride of heart,
As finding greater glory in the thought
Of crowds beneath them, failing where they win;
And some in selfish fear lest place should fail
For them in heaven; and some, my son, like thee,
In wistful love and pity. But to none
Is the full answer given: and, evermore,
The veil, uplifted for a moment's space,
Falls once again, and hides the rest from view.
So was it once when Christ our Master taught,
And one came eager, asking as thou ask'st,
And answer found: ‘Strive thou to enter in,
For strait the gate and narrow is the way
That lead to life.’ So was it once again,
When Cephas, asking of Jochanan's fate,
Received his answer, ‘What is that to thee?’
He bids us walk by faith and not by sight;
37
His Father's righteous purpose.
“Yet He taught
Enough to put to shame our narrowing hearts,
And quicken wider hopes. From out the Book,
Where Scribes and Rabbis find abounding proof
That they alone may call the Lord their God,
He read the tokens of a love that streams
On Jew and Gentile, over bad and good,
As shines the sun in heaven. And thence He told
Of outcasts who had sought the light of God,
Of heathens, whom Jehovah owned as His;
The Syrian leper, cleansed in Jordan's flood,
Sarepta's widow, with her cruse of oil,
The men of Nimrod's city, crouching low
In dust and ashes at the prophet's word,
The queen who, coming from the furthest south,
Communed with David's son of all the thoughts,
Deep, wide, and wondrous, that had stirred her heart:
And thus, through all His life He gave us proof,
While working still by self-imposèd law
Within a narrower limit, that His heart
Went forth to all. He shrank not from the touch
Of harlot's hands, or flood of harlot's tears;
He turned not back when that adulterous wife
At Jacob's well spoke with him,—went and dwelt
For two whole days within Samaria's gates;
And when that outcast of a cursed race
Knelt to Him in her woe, and found at first
Reluctance, silence, sternness, yet the change
Came soon; His eye had read her secret soul,
And all she asked He gave. The soldier rough,
Trained in Rome's legions to a life of war,
Was owned by Him as having nobler faith
Than we of Israel. Yea, the words went forth:
‘From east and west, from north and south, shall come
Thousands, and tens of thousands, sitting down
With Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, at the feast
Of God's great kingdom.’ Bolder, stranger still,
He drew two pictures of that last great day:
On one side stood the greatest of our Scribes,
Honoured and trusted, rigorous in their fasts,
Punctual in prayers, paying tithes of all;
And, on the other, those whose names we loathe,
The dwellers of the Cities of the Vale,
The men of Tyre and Sidon, sunk, as they,
In pride, and lust, and baseness. ‘And for these,’
So ran the words, ‘shall be the lighter doom,
The fewer stripes, the easier pain and loss;
For those, the outer darkness, and the wail
Of sharpest woe.’ And then, my son, He told
What oft has given me comfort when dark thoughts
Like those thou speak'st of, haunt and vex my soul,
Words which lift up one corner of the veil,
And show hope's brighter vision; ‘lighter doom’;
So spake He; ‘for had they too seen my works,
And heard my words, in sackcloth and in dust
Long since they had repented.’ Wondrous words!
Which none might speak but He, the Judge of all,
Who reads the inner depths of each man's heart,
And calls the things that are not into life,
Counting as though they were. He sees the gleams
Of better thoughts across the murkiest gloom,
The seeds of good amid the howling wastes,
And perfects them at last; and, in the depths
Of His divine forbearance, suffereth long,
And passeth by transgression. Those who wait
To meet the bridegroom, they must trim their lamps,
And seek the oil from heaven; and those who own
Him Master, and from Him their gifts receive,
Must bring their talents—ten, or five, or one—
With usury to their Lord. But that vast throng,
The multitude of peoples, nations, tongues,
Shall stand before His throne, and every act
Of human kindness He will own as His,
And crown as service rendered unto Him.
Oh! doubt not, then, my son, but fight thy way
In clearer faith against bewildering fears:
Believe that He who in His pitying love
Embraced the children, not of saintly sires,
Or wise, or mighty, but the low-born babes
Of peasant mothers, whom the cleansing flood
Of baptism never reached, and laid His hands,
Mighty to bless, upon their infant heads;
Doubt not that He looks on, embracing still
All new-born souls that taste the breath of life.
That child of harlot-mother, in His sight
Who judges all, is precious as the babe
Which slumbers peaceful in the enfolding arms
Of saintliest matron. Nor do years alone
Determine childhood. Those who live and die,
Children in knowledge, ignorant, and blind,
Children in spirit, simple, kind, and true,
Children in temper, wayward, changeful, weak,
These too He pities, these He seeks to bless;
Their angels stand as highest near the throne.
So evermore His sentence overturns
Our feebler judgment. Outcasts, whom thou spurn'st,
Shall stand before their God arrayed in white,
And sing for joy, the last become the first;
And Rabbis, saints, and teachers, if they hope
For pardon and for peace, must take their place
Low down with shame, the first become the last.
So in the end the eternal Love will shine;
So at the last the mists and clouds will clear:
Till then from out the cloud there comes the voice
Which speaks in trumpet-tones through every land:
‘O house of Israel! O thou church of God!
O parties, sects, disputers! own ye not
Your ways unequal, Mine all just and true?’”
Enough to put to shame our narrowing hearts,
And quicken wider hopes. From out the Book,
Where Scribes and Rabbis find abounding proof
That they alone may call the Lord their God,
He read the tokens of a love that streams
On Jew and Gentile, over bad and good,
As shines the sun in heaven. And thence He told
Of outcasts who had sought the light of God,
Of heathens, whom Jehovah owned as His;
The Syrian leper, cleansed in Jordan's flood,
Sarepta's widow, with her cruse of oil,
The men of Nimrod's city, crouching low
In dust and ashes at the prophet's word,
The queen who, coming from the furthest south,
Communed with David's son of all the thoughts,
Deep, wide, and wondrous, that had stirred her heart:
And thus, through all His life He gave us proof,
While working still by self-imposèd law
Within a narrower limit, that His heart
Went forth to all. He shrank not from the touch
Of harlot's hands, or flood of harlot's tears;
He turned not back when that adulterous wife
At Jacob's well spoke with him,—went and dwelt
For two whole days within Samaria's gates;
38
Knelt to Him in her woe, and found at first
Reluctance, silence, sternness, yet the change
Came soon; His eye had read her secret soul,
And all she asked He gave. The soldier rough,
Trained in Rome's legions to a life of war,
Was owned by Him as having nobler faith
Than we of Israel. Yea, the words went forth:
‘From east and west, from north and south, shall come
Thousands, and tens of thousands, sitting down
With Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, at the feast
Of God's great kingdom.’ Bolder, stranger still,
He drew two pictures of that last great day:
On one side stood the greatest of our Scribes,
Honoured and trusted, rigorous in their fasts,
Punctual in prayers, paying tithes of all;
And, on the other, those whose names we loathe,
The dwellers of the Cities of the Vale,
The men of Tyre and Sidon, sunk, as they,
In pride, and lust, and baseness. ‘And for these,’
So ran the words, ‘shall be the lighter doom,
The fewer stripes, the easier pain and loss;
For those, the outer darkness, and the wail
Of sharpest woe.’ And then, my son, He told
What oft has given me comfort when dark thoughts
Like those thou speak'st of, haunt and vex my soul,
Words which lift up one corner of the veil,
39
So spake He; ‘for had they too seen my works,
And heard my words, in sackcloth and in dust
Long since they had repented.’ Wondrous words!
Which none might speak but He, the Judge of all,
Who reads the inner depths of each man's heart,
And calls the things that are not into life,
Counting as though they were. He sees the gleams
Of better thoughts across the murkiest gloom,
The seeds of good amid the howling wastes,
And perfects them at last; and, in the depths
Of His divine forbearance, suffereth long,
And passeth by transgression. Those who wait
To meet the bridegroom, they must trim their lamps,
And seek the oil from heaven; and those who own
Him Master, and from Him their gifts receive,
Must bring their talents—ten, or five, or one—
With usury to their Lord. But that vast throng,
The multitude of peoples, nations, tongues,
Shall stand before His throne, and every act
Of human kindness He will own as His,
And crown as service rendered unto Him.
Oh! doubt not, then, my son, but fight thy way
In clearer faith against bewildering fears:
Believe that He who in His pitying love
Embraced the children, not of saintly sires,
Or wise, or mighty, but the low-born babes
Of peasant mothers, whom the cleansing flood
40
Mighty to bless, upon their infant heads;
Doubt not that He looks on, embracing still
All new-born souls that taste the breath of life.
That child of harlot-mother, in His sight
Who judges all, is precious as the babe
Which slumbers peaceful in the enfolding arms
Of saintliest matron. Nor do years alone
Determine childhood. Those who live and die,
Children in knowledge, ignorant, and blind,
Children in spirit, simple, kind, and true,
Children in temper, wayward, changeful, weak,
These too He pities, these He seeks to bless;
Their angels stand as highest near the throne.
So evermore His sentence overturns
Our feebler judgment. Outcasts, whom thou spurn'st,
Shall stand before their God arrayed in white,
And sing for joy, the last become the first;
And Rabbis, saints, and teachers, if they hope
For pardon and for peace, must take their place
Low down with shame, the first become the last.
So in the end the eternal Love will shine;
So at the last the mists and clouds will clear:
Till then from out the cloud there comes the voice
Which speaks in trumpet-tones through every land:
‘O house of Israel! O thou church of God!
O parties, sects, disputers! own ye not
Your ways unequal, Mine all just and true?’”
41
Yet once again, half-shamed to speak again,
Pausing as one who, having asked for help,
And gained it, fears, though wanting more, to ask,
The seeker uttered all his deep desire.
Pausing as one who, having asked for help,
And gained it, fears, though wanting more, to ask,
The seeker uttered all his deep desire.
“Thy words give comfort, Father: I can look
With less despair on those poor heathen souls
That throng around me. I can now believe,
As my dear master taught me, that the death
Of Christ our Lord availed for all the world
To purchase peace and pardon. I can feel
One common bond of brotherhood with all:
They too are ransomed, and the Light that shines
On us illumines them. And yet there floats
(Bear with me, Father, if I speak it out)
A vague, dim doubt around me. Deem not, then,
My thoughts too bold or subtle; but there comes
This question, and I cannot find reply:—
‘If this be so, if all alike shall stand
On equal ground before the great white throne,
If heathen outcasts gain eternal life,
By law unwritten, or by deeds of love,
What needs this message of the Cross of Christ?
Why leave we not the heathen as they are,
Sure that they too will reach the goal at last?
Why go our teachers forth from land to land,
Braving all terrors of the shore, or deep,
To call those wandering, shipwrecked souls to God;
When, as it seems, they spend their strength in vain,
And add no jot to all their chance of bliss?’
And yet once more: the souls that stand condemned,
Or by the Word revealed, or Law unwrit,
Yet graven in their hearts, what fate is theirs?
Are they for ever doomed to penal fires?
Does God delight to torture? Can it be
His love abates when sudden stroke of death
Cuts off the soul whom that forbearing Love
Was leading to repentance? Here on earth
The will is plastic: stained with many a crime
It yet can struggle upward, and renew
Its vigour like the eagle's. Dare we say
That freedom ends with death? Has God's decree
For ever fixed the casual mood of soul
Of that last moment? Does His will condemn
To endless sin? Or welcomes He, at last,
When sin no longer reigns, the wandering soul
That wakes through death to life? Oh, glorious thought,
That wraps the future with a golden dawn,
Where old familiar words and new-born hopes
Seem melting into one! ‘The Son of God,
Destroys the works of Sin, the power of Death;’
‘Great was the trespass, greater still the love.’
‘A time shall come when all shall pass away,
All foes o'ercome, and guilt and darkness gone,
And God be all in all, the eternal Love
Prevailing, conquering, binding men to God.
Ah me! my Father; now I dream my dream
Of one broad, mighty, everlasting peace,
The concord of a universe at rest;
And now once more the mists and shadows come
Between my soul and God, and fear shuts out
That full assurèd hope, and sterner words
Come back unbidden, shattering all my joy.
Broad were the lines He traced, the Lord of Love,
The sheep and goats, the lost ones and the saved;
And evermore, when speaking of the doom
Of that great day, He spake of endless woe,
The quenchless fire, the worm that cannot die,
The punishment which with the life must be
Co-equal, co-eternal. And yet,—and yet;
(Oh! pardon thou these wandering thoughts of mine)
New words recur of hope. One only sin,
So spake He, neither in the world that is,
Nor in the world that comes, can ever gain
Forgiveness. Only of the traitor's soul
Were the words spoken, ‘It were good for him
That he had ne'er been born.’ I ask myself,
Might not that doom, if former fears were true,
Be written on the universe of God,
On all the countless myriads that have passed
In darkness to the grave? If thou canst solve
These riddles, O my Father! if thy soul
Has gone beyond the doubts that come and go,
Unfold the secret. One has told, I know,
Of torments lasting their appointed time,
Of fires that, burning, cleanse the sin-stained soul,
Of cycles strange through which our spirits pass,
Tasting new forms of life, or man or brute,
Tested and tried till they too rise to God,
And in the fields Elysian find their rest,
Or lose their separate being, to the All
Returning once again. But these, perchance,
Are but a poet's fancies. Thou canst guide
My tottering feet through these bewildering mists
In which I wander, wavering and perplexed,
Staggering like drunken man in fevered dreams.”
With less despair on those poor heathen souls
That throng around me. I can now believe,
As my dear master taught me, that the death
Of Christ our Lord availed for all the world
To purchase peace and pardon. I can feel
One common bond of brotherhood with all:
They too are ransomed, and the Light that shines
On us illumines them. And yet there floats
(Bear with me, Father, if I speak it out)
A vague, dim doubt around me. Deem not, then,
My thoughts too bold or subtle; but there comes
This question, and I cannot find reply:—
‘If this be so, if all alike shall stand
On equal ground before the great white throne,
If heathen outcasts gain eternal life,
By law unwritten, or by deeds of love,
What needs this message of the Cross of Christ?
Why leave we not the heathen as they are,
Sure that they too will reach the goal at last?
Why go our teachers forth from land to land,
Braving all terrors of the shore, or deep,
To call those wandering, shipwrecked souls to God;
When, as it seems, they spend their strength in vain,
42
And yet once more: the souls that stand condemned,
Or by the Word revealed, or Law unwrit,
Yet graven in their hearts, what fate is theirs?
Are they for ever doomed to penal fires?
Does God delight to torture? Can it be
His love abates when sudden stroke of death
Cuts off the soul whom that forbearing Love
Was leading to repentance? Here on earth
The will is plastic: stained with many a crime
It yet can struggle upward, and renew
Its vigour like the eagle's. Dare we say
That freedom ends with death? Has God's decree
For ever fixed the casual mood of soul
Of that last moment? Does His will condemn
To endless sin? Or welcomes He, at last,
When sin no longer reigns, the wandering soul
That wakes through death to life? Oh, glorious thought,
That wraps the future with a golden dawn,
Where old familiar words and new-born hopes
Seem melting into one! ‘The Son of God,
Destroys the works of Sin, the power of Death;’
‘Great was the trespass, greater still the love.’
‘A time shall come when all shall pass away,
All foes o'ercome, and guilt and darkness gone,
And God be all in all, the eternal Love
43
Ah me! my Father; now I dream my dream
Of one broad, mighty, everlasting peace,
The concord of a universe at rest;
And now once more the mists and shadows come
Between my soul and God, and fear shuts out
That full assurèd hope, and sterner words
Come back unbidden, shattering all my joy.
Broad were the lines He traced, the Lord of Love,
The sheep and goats, the lost ones and the saved;
And evermore, when speaking of the doom
Of that great day, He spake of endless woe,
The quenchless fire, the worm that cannot die,
The punishment which with the life must be
Co-equal, co-eternal. And yet,—and yet;
(Oh! pardon thou these wandering thoughts of mine)
New words recur of hope. One only sin,
So spake He, neither in the world that is,
Nor in the world that comes, can ever gain
Forgiveness. Only of the traitor's soul
Were the words spoken, ‘It were good for him
That he had ne'er been born.’ I ask myself,
Might not that doom, if former fears were true,
Be written on the universe of God,
On all the countless myriads that have passed
In darkness to the grave? If thou canst solve
These riddles, O my Father! if thy soul
44
Unfold the secret. One has told, I know,
Of torments lasting their appointed time,
Of fires that, burning, cleanse the sin-stained soul,
Of cycles strange through which our spirits pass,
Tasting new forms of life, or man or brute,
Tested and tried till they too rise to God,
And in the fields Elysian find their rest,
Or lose their separate being, to the All
Returning once again. But these, perchance,
Are but a poet's fancies. Thou canst guide
My tottering feet through these bewildering mists
In which I wander, wavering and perplexed,
Staggering like drunken man in fevered dreams.”
Then Eleazar spake. “Ah me! my son,
Thy questions come as fast and wild as winds
Of autumn; and they vex thee, as the blasts
Vex the deep waters of a mountain lake.
Here once again I bid thee walk by faith:
Nor I, nor thou, can see the mystery clear.
But wonder not, if thoughts should lead thee on,
Each starting from divinest, wisest words,
To issues which agree not. Evermore
We see the sides of truth, and cannot grasp,
So low we stand, the greatness of the whole.
Thus God elects, yet man is free to choose;
And God, foreseeing evil, lets it be,
Yet evil is not His; and Christ our Lord,
One with the Father in His boundless might,
Is one with us in all that makes us weak;
And God hath shown His Love in sending Christ,
Yet Christ by death hath reconciled to God
The creatures else condemned; and God is One,
Yet evermore we praise the threefold Name,
The Father, and the Spirit, and the Son.
So fares it with all mysteries of God;
Men cannot bring them to the rule and line
Of earthly wisdom, or with subtle art
Build up their systems. Broad, o'erarching all,
They float above us, and with hopes or fears
We watch their changing aspects. And we need
Both hopes and fears: we may not cast aside
One truth that Christ has spoken, may not say
To all the heedless souls that turn from God,
‘Go on, and sin; the end is still the same,
The journey only longer;’—dare not close
The door of hope which Christ Himself throws wide,
Nor lose from sight the many stripes, and few,
The lighter, heavier woes. Our feebler thoughts
Dwell on the outward symbols of the doom,
The worm, the fire, the darkness, and the scourge
But thou, my son, hast learnt the doom itself.
These are but signs and figures of the true,
Shadows of things that are. The enduring pain
Is memory of evil seen at last
As evil, hateful, loathsome. Pleasant sins,
Which here the doer of the wrong recalls
With faint vibrations of the former sense,
There evermore are present to the soul
In all their foulness, and we feel the wrath
Eternal then unveiled. And hence the woe
Is endless: there we cannot drug our souls,
Or blot from sight the ever hateful past,
The feignèd semblance, or the open shame.
We cannot change that past; through all the years
Its woe is with us, shading all the life
In gloom of twilight, or in thickest night
Deepening the blackness. To the souls that sinned
In ignorance of God, His grace may come
In mercy wide and free, revealing Light
To those in darkness, blotting out the guilt
Of sins of wild confusion, leaving still,
Through endless æons, all the inward pain
Which waits on conscious sin. To cancel that
Were to undo the eternal work of God,
And leave them still in blindness. And to dream,
As some have dreamt, of agony of sense,
The burning flame, and thick-ribbed ice in turn,
As having power to purify and cleanse,
As greater terrors than the accusing thoughts,
The voice that speaks in thunder, and the wrath
Eternal of the All-knowing and All-good,
This is to take the shadow for the truth,
And live in outward symbols. Golden throne,
Bright gates of pearl, and walls of amethyst,
The pure clear river, and the mystic tree,—
These are but tokens of the inward bliss,
The vision of our God, to pure hearts given
As life, and peace, and joy. And so the woe,
Which makes the doom of evil, is to see
That face averted. God, whose Name is Love,
Condemns the unloving: so we see in Him
That Light eternal, that consuming Fire;
And still the question meets us as of old,
‘What child of man can face that ceaseless flame,
And dwell with burnings everlastingly?’
And evermore, as once from Prophet's lips,
The strange, bold answer reaches unto us,
‘He who the truth hath spoken, right hath done,
Who, fearing God, has conquered self and sin,
He need not fear the fire.’ It burns and burns,
Consuming what is worthless, cleansing still
The pure, bright gold, the treasure of our God.
Thy questions come as fast and wild as winds
Of autumn; and they vex thee, as the blasts
Vex the deep waters of a mountain lake.
Here once again I bid thee walk by faith:
Nor I, nor thou, can see the mystery clear.
But wonder not, if thoughts should lead thee on,
Each starting from divinest, wisest words,
To issues which agree not. Evermore
We see the sides of truth, and cannot grasp,
So low we stand, the greatness of the whole.
Thus God elects, yet man is free to choose;
And God, foreseeing evil, lets it be,
45
One with the Father in His boundless might,
Is one with us in all that makes us weak;
And God hath shown His Love in sending Christ,
Yet Christ by death hath reconciled to God
The creatures else condemned; and God is One,
Yet evermore we praise the threefold Name,
The Father, and the Spirit, and the Son.
So fares it with all mysteries of God;
Men cannot bring them to the rule and line
Of earthly wisdom, or with subtle art
Build up their systems. Broad, o'erarching all,
They float above us, and with hopes or fears
We watch their changing aspects. And we need
Both hopes and fears: we may not cast aside
One truth that Christ has spoken, may not say
To all the heedless souls that turn from God,
‘Go on, and sin; the end is still the same,
The journey only longer;’—dare not close
The door of hope which Christ Himself throws wide,
Nor lose from sight the many stripes, and few,
The lighter, heavier woes. Our feebler thoughts
Dwell on the outward symbols of the doom,
The worm, the fire, the darkness, and the scourge
But thou, my son, hast learnt the doom itself.
These are but signs and figures of the true,
Shadows of things that are. The enduring pain
46
As evil, hateful, loathsome. Pleasant sins,
Which here the doer of the wrong recalls
With faint vibrations of the former sense,
There evermore are present to the soul
In all their foulness, and we feel the wrath
Eternal then unveiled. And hence the woe
Is endless: there we cannot drug our souls,
Or blot from sight the ever hateful past,
The feignèd semblance, or the open shame.
We cannot change that past; through all the years
Its woe is with us, shading all the life
In gloom of twilight, or in thickest night
Deepening the blackness. To the souls that sinned
In ignorance of God, His grace may come
In mercy wide and free, revealing Light
To those in darkness, blotting out the guilt
Of sins of wild confusion, leaving still,
Through endless æons, all the inward pain
Which waits on conscious sin. To cancel that
Were to undo the eternal work of God,
And leave them still in blindness. And to dream,
As some have dreamt, of agony of sense,
The burning flame, and thick-ribbed ice in turn,
As having power to purify and cleanse,
As greater terrors than the accusing thoughts,
The voice that speaks in thunder, and the wrath
Eternal of the All-knowing and All-good,
47
And live in outward symbols. Golden throne,
Bright gates of pearl, and walls of amethyst,
The pure clear river, and the mystic tree,—
These are but tokens of the inward bliss,
The vision of our God, to pure hearts given
As life, and peace, and joy. And so the woe,
Which makes the doom of evil, is to see
That face averted. God, whose Name is Love,
Condemns the unloving: so we see in Him
That Light eternal, that consuming Fire;
And still the question meets us as of old,
‘What child of man can face that ceaseless flame,
And dwell with burnings everlastingly?’
And evermore, as once from Prophet's lips,
The strange, bold answer reaches unto us,
‘He who the truth hath spoken, right hath done,
Who, fearing God, has conquered self and sin,
He need not fear the fire.’ It burns and burns,
Consuming what is worthless, cleansing still
The pure, bright gold, the treasure of our God.
“And if these thoughts still leave a darkened space
Through which no light can pierce, if awful words
Speak of persistent evil, wills that, fixed
In hate, defiance, scorn, reject the Light,
Increasing through the endless age their woe,
As adding still fresh deeds of deeper guilt,—
Who then am I to question and to judge?
I bow before the judgment, and am dumb;
I cannot tell how evil first began,
Or why through all the mystery of the world
It runs its course, and all creation groans
In bondage, panting, struggling to be free.
I cannot tell if it shall cease to be,
Or when or how, the final victory won,
The conquering Christ shall yield his throne to God;
Or if the conquest shall destroy the works
Of sin and death, or leave them as they are,
His curse upon them. All I know is this,
That God is holy, and that righteous wrath
Must fall for ever on the soul that sins;
That God is Love, and willeth not the death,
Or here, or there, of any soul of man.
And if I see not how, in secret depths,
(The light and darkness melting into one)
The discords of the world are harmonised,
The truths that clash brought once again to peace,
I find my stay in old, familiar words,
The key-note of my life, and all its thoughts,
True of that life through all its wondrous course,
True of the world through all its circling years,
True of the endless ages as they pass,—
Words that rebuke the doubter, bow our pride,
Refresh the mourner, strengthen all our prayers,
The words for thee, my son, when vexing thoughts
Distract thy soul, and fill thy heart with fears;
Make answer thou, with firm unwavering faith,
Against those doubts, as Christ made answer once,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God.’
Through which no light can pierce, if awful words
Speak of persistent evil, wills that, fixed
In hate, defiance, scorn, reject the Light,
Increasing through the endless age their woe,
As adding still fresh deeds of deeper guilt,—
Who then am I to question and to judge?
48
I cannot tell how evil first began,
Or why through all the mystery of the world
It runs its course, and all creation groans
In bondage, panting, struggling to be free.
I cannot tell if it shall cease to be,
Or when or how, the final victory won,
The conquering Christ shall yield his throne to God;
Or if the conquest shall destroy the works
Of sin and death, or leave them as they are,
His curse upon them. All I know is this,
That God is holy, and that righteous wrath
Must fall for ever on the soul that sins;
That God is Love, and willeth not the death,
Or here, or there, of any soul of man.
And if I see not how, in secret depths,
(The light and darkness melting into one)
The discords of the world are harmonised,
The truths that clash brought once again to peace,
I find my stay in old, familiar words,
The key-note of my life, and all its thoughts,
True of that life through all its wondrous course,
True of the world through all its circling years,
True of the endless ages as they pass,—
Words that rebuke the doubter, bow our pride,
Refresh the mourner, strengthen all our prayers,
The words for thee, my son, when vexing thoughts
49
Make answer thou, with firm unwavering faith,
Against those doubts, as Christ made answer once,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God.’
“For thee, at least, the path is clearly traced:
Do thou thy Master's bidding. If He came,
Enduring all the torture and the death,
To speak to all men of His Father's love,
Thou, too, if thou hast learnt to think His thoughts,
Must speak to them of Him. Thou may'st not leave
Those souls to wander in their hopeless night,
Nor make the mercy of thy God a cloak
For coward sloth, nor, rapt in visions high,
Forget the present. If thou see'st the wrong,
Rebuke it; if the many sin and die,
In pity to their souls, hold not thy peace,
But warn them of the Everlasting Fire,
And win them with the Everlasting Love.
And oh! my son, beware lest pride of heart,
Or yearning pity, or thy zeal for God,
Lead thee to change His order. Not in vain,
Taught He at first, by fear of endless woe,
In parable and drama shadowing forth
The doom of evil. Men must learn to hate
The accursèd self that keeps their souls from God;
Must learn to feel the burden of their guilt,
As measured by the woe which God assigns
In that dark prison which the Eternal Love
Hath ordered in its wisdom and its might:
And some may find the lesson hard to learn,
And, knowing not thy thoughts, may miss their way,
If thou should'st leave the simple, open path
Which Christ hath trodden. Teach as He hath taught,
Not halving truths, in haste of jealous strife,
Nor twisting words awry with subtle art,
Not speaking where the voice of Christ was dumb,
Nor silent where He spake. Judge thou thyself,
And leave the greater task to greater power;
Commit thy friends, thy brothers, yea, thy foes,
The myriads, past, and present, and to come,
To Him who sitteth on the Eternal Throne,
The Son of Man, and yet the Lord of All,
The Judge, the Priest, the Saviour, and the Friend.
Thou canst not gauge His drear abyss of wrath,
Thou canst not fathom all His boundless love,
Thou canst not track His footsteps on the deep;
And still if doubt, or grief, or hope, or fear
Perplex thee for the future or the past,
Cling to His cross for shelter, own thy guilt,
Thy shame, thy blindness, and with veilèd face,
Low in the dust, be silent and adore.”
Do thou thy Master's bidding. If He came,
Enduring all the torture and the death,
To speak to all men of His Father's love,
Thou, too, if thou hast learnt to think His thoughts,
Must speak to them of Him. Thou may'st not leave
Those souls to wander in their hopeless night,
Nor make the mercy of thy God a cloak
For coward sloth, nor, rapt in visions high,
Forget the present. If thou see'st the wrong,
Rebuke it; if the many sin and die,
In pity to their souls, hold not thy peace,
But warn them of the Everlasting Fire,
And win them with the Everlasting Love.
And oh! my son, beware lest pride of heart,
Or yearning pity, or thy zeal for God,
Lead thee to change His order. Not in vain,
Taught He at first, by fear of endless woe,
In parable and drama shadowing forth
The doom of evil. Men must learn to hate
The accursèd self that keeps their souls from God;
Must learn to feel the burden of their guilt,
As measured by the woe which God assigns
50
Hath ordered in its wisdom and its might:
And some may find the lesson hard to learn,
And, knowing not thy thoughts, may miss their way,
If thou should'st leave the simple, open path
Which Christ hath trodden. Teach as He hath taught,
Not halving truths, in haste of jealous strife,
Nor twisting words awry with subtle art,
Not speaking where the voice of Christ was dumb,
Nor silent where He spake. Judge thou thyself,
And leave the greater task to greater power;
Commit thy friends, thy brothers, yea, thy foes,
The myriads, past, and present, and to come,
To Him who sitteth on the Eternal Throne,
The Son of Man, and yet the Lord of All,
The Judge, the Priest, the Saviour, and the Friend.
Thou canst not gauge His drear abyss of wrath,
Thou canst not fathom all His boundless love,
Thou canst not track His footsteps on the deep;
And still if doubt, or grief, or hope, or fear
Perplex thee for the future or the past,
Cling to His cross for shelter, own thy guilt,
Thy shame, thy blindness, and with veilèd face,
Low in the dust, be silent and adore.”
May, 1864.
51
THOUGHTS OF A GALATIAN CONVERT. A. D. 57.
These are strange times; I stand as half-perplexed
Which way to turn amid the war of creeds:
New names are heard among us—Moses, Christ;
Our fathers knew them not, and yet the suns
Rose brightly on them, and the glad showers fell,
And life was pleasant on the vine-clad hills.
They loved and were beloved; they toiled and died.
Why has this change come o'er us? Why disturb
The good old order of the earlier days?
Why should this flood of vexing questions come,
Disturbing all our peace, and making life
One weary struggle after distant joy,
One painful journey through a trackless waste?
Which way to turn amid the war of creeds:
New names are heard among us—Moses, Christ;
Our fathers knew them not, and yet the suns
Rose brightly on them, and the glad showers fell,
And life was pleasant on the vine-clad hills.
They loved and were beloved; they toiled and died.
Why has this change come o'er us? Why disturb
The good old order of the earlier days?
Why should this flood of vexing questions come,
Disturbing all our peace, and making life
One weary struggle after distant joy,
One painful journey through a trackless waste?
And yet the world was evil. This I know,
Though I have seen but little: I have heard
In distant Attaleia, by the sea,
Of those great cities of the western world
Corinth the rich, and Rome magnificent,
And Athens, home of Wisdom; and the tales
Men told me made me shudder. Lust and greed,
Envy and hate, and all things rank and vile,
Grew rampant in their baseness. None were true,
None brave or pure; before an emperor's throne,
Adoring as a god the tyrant lord,
Baser than all his slaves, men bowed their heads
In self-debasing homage. Truth was crushed;
And those who might have helped her silent stood,
Or, wrapt in idle musings, reasoned much
Of destiny, and happiness, and chance,
(None wiser for their talk), perplexing more
The tangled problems of this life of ours.
Though I have seen but little: I have heard
In distant Attaleia, by the sea,
52
Corinth the rich, and Rome magnificent,
And Athens, home of Wisdom; and the tales
Men told me made me shudder. Lust and greed,
Envy and hate, and all things rank and vile,
Grew rampant in their baseness. None were true,
None brave or pure; before an emperor's throne,
Adoring as a god the tyrant lord,
Baser than all his slaves, men bowed their heads
In self-debasing homage. Truth was crushed;
And those who might have helped her silent stood,
Or, wrapt in idle musings, reasoned much
Of destiny, and happiness, and chance,
(None wiser for their talk), perplexing more
The tangled problems of this life of ours.
We, too, have seen in our Galatian fields
What that great world was like. To these our hills
Prætors have come to snatch from toil-worn hands
Their scanty earnings, and the locust brood
Of those fierce legions ravaged all our vales.
We dared not murmur: we could only bear
Our ills in silence, or at best might bribe
The shameless ruler, glad enough to keep
The little that he left us, shuddering still
As the proud Roman's wandering glance surveyed
The goodliest and the noblest of our youth,
Our sons and daughters, picking out his slaves,
That they, too, might be vile, and eat the bread
Of loathsome bondage. Yes, the world went wrong;
Hope's dreams had faded; what the poets sang
Of great Augustus was belied by time.
No golden age had come: the old disease
Was still unhealed, the old crimes re-appeared.
A change was needed; yet the skies were dark,
And no bright streaks of dawn were in the East;
The oracles were silent, and the gods
Seemed waxing feeble; and our faith grew weak,
According to their weakness. Hymns of praise
Were but an idle rending of the air;
And as for prayers—who dreamt the gods would hear?
Who feared their vengeance? Could we hope that they
Would rouse the world from its decrepit age,
And make it young again? And so decay
Went on to rottenness; and mists of doubt
Hung over all our souls, as o'er a fen
The dank fog clings, and poisons while it chills;
And when we asked the question, “What is truth?”
No voice made answer from the eternal depths.
And yet among our people, on the heights
What that great world was like. To these our hills
Prætors have come to snatch from toil-worn hands
Their scanty earnings, and the locust brood
Of those fierce legions ravaged all our vales.
We dared not murmur: we could only bear
Our ills in silence, or at best might bribe
The shameless ruler, glad enough to keep
The little that he left us, shuddering still
As the proud Roman's wandering glance surveyed
The goodliest and the noblest of our youth,
Our sons and daughters, picking out his slaves,
That they, too, might be vile, and eat the bread
53
Hope's dreams had faded; what the poets sang
Of great Augustus was belied by time.
No golden age had come: the old disease
Was still unhealed, the old crimes re-appeared.
A change was needed; yet the skies were dark,
And no bright streaks of dawn were in the East;
The oracles were silent, and the gods
Seemed waxing feeble; and our faith grew weak,
According to their weakness. Hymns of praise
Were but an idle rending of the air;
And as for prayers—who dreamt the gods would hear?
Who feared their vengeance? Could we hope that they
Would rouse the world from its decrepit age,
And make it young again? And so decay
Went on to rottenness; and mists of doubt
Hung over all our souls, as o'er a fen
The dank fog clings, and poisons while it chills;
And when we asked the question, “What is truth?”
No voice made answer from the eternal depths.
Of Phrygia's hills, and round the ancient shrines
Of old Galatian towns, there lingered still
Some traces of the wild, mysterious power,
The spell that bound our fathers to their faith.
54
Their wands, and clash their cymbals, and their song,
First stealing through the brain with subtle power,
Waking each nerve to tension,—then with floods
Of surging sound tumultuous, sweeping on,
Like some great river foaming in its pride,
Filled all the soul with madness; and the charm,
In one wild, dizzy, whirling, frenzied dance,
Drew all who worshipped; and the drops poured down
From pallid brows and languid limbs, till night
Fell on them with its darkness, covering deeds
Yet darker; and the morning grey looked in
On haggard faces, spectral forms, and eyes
Ghastly and vacant, drunk, but not with wine.
I, too, have known all this, have felt the blood
Rush like a boiling torrent through my veins,
Half-tempted, in the madness of the hour,
To be as Atys was, and like her priests
To serve the Goddess-mother; but the sense
Of memory, waking in me, held me back,
The hopes of many summers, and the face
Of one fair, bright-eyed maiden on the hills.
So life went on. Near thirty years had passed,
When through our village came the strangest band
That ever travelled through Galatia's vales:
55
Or precious spikenard in the milk-white vase,
Or golden goblets; no centurions, come
To take our numbers, and to tax our farms;
Nor yet as pilgrims hasting to the shrine
Of Pessinus, where Cybele holds sway,
Mother of all the gods, with crown of towers.
Like none of these they came, those travellers three;
One in full age, dark-eyed, with eagle face,
Like those whom in Pisidian synagogues
Men know as Rabbis. Grave he was, and oft
Could speak to touch men's hearts, and stir their fears
With words of coming woe: yet not of him
Thought we most then, or most remember now.
The next was young and slender, scarcely past
His eighteenth summer, gentle as a girl,
Shrinking from each rude gaze, or jesting word;
A hidden fire within his lustrous eyes,
Telling of musings deep; and pale, thin cheeks,
Bearing their witness of the midnight watch
And fast prolonged, and conquest over self;
Timotheos, so they called him, won our love,
And paid it back with tears: yet not of him
Thought we most then, or most remember now.
The third who journeyed with them, weak and worn,
56
We looked upon with wonder. Not for him
The praise of form heroic, supple limbs,
The glory of the sculptor as he moulds
The locks of Zeus o'erspreading lofty brows;
Apollo, the Far-darter, in the pride
Of manhood's noblest beauty, or the grace
Of sandalled Hermes, messenger of gods:
Not thus he came, but clad in raiment worn,
Of roughest texture, bearing many stains
Of age and travel. In his hand he bore
A staff, on which he leant as one whose limbs
Have lost before their time the strength of youth;
And underneath his arm a strange, old book,
Whose mystic letters seemed for him the words
Of wisdom and of truth. And oft he read,
In solemn cadence, words that thrilled his soul,
And, lighting that worn face with new-born gleam,
Bade him go on rejoicing.
So they came;
So entered he our town; but, ere the sun
Had lit the Eastern clouds, a fever's chill
Fell on him; parchèd thirst, and darting throbs
Of keenest anguish racked those weary limbs;
His brow seemed circled with a crown of pain;
And oft, pale, breathless, as if life had fled,
He looked like one in ecstasy, who sees
What others see not, to whose ears a voice,
57
And broken sounds would murmur from his lips
Of glory wondrous, sights ineffable,
The cry of “Abba, Father,” and the notes
Of some strange, solemn chant of other lands.
So stricken, prostrate, pale, the traveller lay,
So stript of all the comeliness of form,
Men might have spurned and loathed him, passing on
To lead their brighter life. And yet we stayed;
We spurned him not, nor loathed; through all the shrouds
Of poverty and sickness we could see
The hero-soul, the presence as of One
Whom then we knew not. When the pain was sharp,
And furrowed brows betrayed the strife within,
Then was he gentlest. Even to our slaves
He spake as brothers, winning all their hearts
By that unwonted kindness. Those who came
To give some casual help, the grape's fresh juice,
Or golden fruit from Pontus, found a spring
Of new-born feeling flooding all their souls;
The careless, sportive youths, hard-toiling men,
And mothers worn with age and household work,
And children smiling in their infant glee,
Would gather round his couch; and each and all
Found it their highest blessing but to soothe
58
Would fain have offered health, and strength, and youth,
Would fain have given their own bright, gleaming eyes,
And walked in darkness, so that he might see.
And then, as strength returned, he spake to us
As none e'er spake before: “I find you friends;
God's law of love is written on your hearts;
Ye seek the Unknown, the Lord of Earth and Heaven,
The Father of us all. And yet I see
In every home the forms of household gods;
Ye bow before dumb idols. Vain deceit,
Transmitted from your fathers, wraps you round;
Ye know not that the Lord your God is One,
Not far off, dwelling on Olympian hills,
Beyond the furthest Ocean's western glow,
Or down in shadowy realms of Hades dark,
But near, around, within you. Turn, oh! turn
To Him who seeks you, calls you. He has spread
Through all the world the tokens of His love,
The showers from Heaven, and fruitful years, and joy
Of vintage and of harvest. In the soul
Of man himself He wakens solemn dread,
And questionings that stir the depths of life,
And yearnings after peace, the sense of guilt,
Vague hopes and vaguer fears. Yet men are blind,
Blind the untaught, and blinder still the wise,
By wisdom missing God. But through the world
His purpose runs; and when the time had come,
And Jew and Greek had learnt the bitter truth
That sin and death enslaved them, then He sent,
Born in our flesh, in nature one with us,
His Son, His well-beloved, to set us free.”
As none e'er spake before: “I find you friends;
God's law of love is written on your hearts;
Ye seek the Unknown, the Lord of Earth and Heaven,
The Father of us all. And yet I see
In every home the forms of household gods;
Ye bow before dumb idols. Vain deceit,
Transmitted from your fathers, wraps you round;
Ye know not that the Lord your God is One,
Not far off, dwelling on Olympian hills,
Beyond the furthest Ocean's western glow,
Or down in shadowy realms of Hades dark,
But near, around, within you. Turn, oh! turn
To Him who seeks you, calls you. He has spread
Through all the world the tokens of His love,
The showers from Heaven, and fruitful years, and joy
Of vintage and of harvest. In the soul
Of man himself He wakens solemn dread,
And questionings that stir the depths of life,
59
Vague hopes and vaguer fears. Yet men are blind,
Blind the untaught, and blinder still the wise,
By wisdom missing God. But through the world
His purpose runs; and when the time had come,
And Jew and Greek had learnt the bitter truth
That sin and death enslaved them, then He sent,
Born in our flesh, in nature one with us,
His Son, His well-beloved, to set us free.”
Then told he of the works of One who lived
In Galilee, a Prophet, yea, and more
Than prophet e'er had been, for grace and truth
Illumined all His life. He came to heal
Each ill of suffering men, to loose the chains
Of custom, and to bid the oppressed be free,
To tell them of a Father's love, and bind
Their tyrant and destroyer. So He worked
For three short years. And then against Him rose
His nation's priests and rulers, cutting short
The life that shamed them. On the cursèd tree
He died, as die the robber and the slave.
They knew not what they did: the blood that streamed
From those blest wounds was like a God's, and Love
Was mighty in that death to ransom all,
The countless generations of the past,
Those who now walk the earth, and all to come,
Through circling ages. Death, and then the grave,
Came as they come to all; but not for Him
The drear abyss of Hades. Over Him
Death could claim no dominion. In His might,
As Son of God He rose; as Son of Man
Ascended up on high, and liveth there,
A Priest, a Friend, hereafter Lord and Judge.
In Galilee, a Prophet, yea, and more
Than prophet e'er had been, for grace and truth
Illumined all His life. He came to heal
Each ill of suffering men, to loose the chains
Of custom, and to bid the oppressed be free,
To tell them of a Father's love, and bind
Their tyrant and destroyer. So He worked
For three short years. And then against Him rose
His nation's priests and rulers, cutting short
The life that shamed them. On the cursèd tree
He died, as die the robber and the slave.
They knew not what they did: the blood that streamed
From those blest wounds was like a God's, and Love
Was mighty in that death to ransom all,
The countless generations of the past,
Those who now walk the earth, and all to come,
60
Came as they come to all; but not for Him
The drear abyss of Hades. Over Him
Death could claim no dominion. In His might,
As Son of God He rose; as Son of Man
Ascended up on high, and liveth there,
A Priest, a Friend, hereafter Lord and Judge.
“He claims you as His own;” so ran the words
Of that strange preacher when his tale was done;
“In Him you may find pardon, as even I
Have found it for my trespass, darker far
Than you have ever known; for I blasphemed
That holy Name; I bound, and scourged, and stoned
The saints who owned Him Lord: and yet He turned
On me His pitying look. In vision strange,
Within me and without, He met my soul,
And showed me to myself, and bade me know
The glory of His cross. And now I go,
Bearing that cross through all the lands of earth,
And bidding all the nations turn and look
On Him the Crucified. He died for you;
For you He rose again; for you He lives,
And pleads for you before His Father's throne.
Easy His yoke, His burden light. To love,
Repent, believe, is all He asks of you:
His simplest gifts in nature come as signs
And pledges of His love. The running stream
That purifies the flesh shall cleanse the soul;
The daily bread, the wine that glads the heart,
Are by His great command the flesh, the blood,
He gives to be our life; the pledges true
Of fellowship with God's great charity.”
Of that strange preacher when his tale was done;
“In Him you may find pardon, as even I
Have found it for my trespass, darker far
Than you have ever known; for I blasphemed
That holy Name; I bound, and scourged, and stoned
The saints who owned Him Lord: and yet He turned
On me His pitying look. In vision strange,
Within me and without, He met my soul,
And showed me to myself, and bade me know
The glory of His cross. And now I go,
Bearing that cross through all the lands of earth,
And bidding all the nations turn and look
On Him the Crucified. He died for you;
For you He rose again; for you He lives,
And pleads for you before His Father's throne.
Easy His yoke, His burden light. To love,
Repent, believe, is all He asks of you:
His simplest gifts in nature come as signs
61
That purifies the flesh shall cleanse the soul;
The daily bread, the wine that glads the heart,
Are by His great command the flesh, the blood,
He gives to be our life; the pledges true
Of fellowship with God's great charity.”
We listened. Some still doubted; others mocked,
As though a dreamer spake, with idle tales
Lulling men's minds to slumber. I for one,
And others with me, felt that God had sent
His messenger, that these glad tidings came
To call us to His kingdom; and we owned
The Christ of whom he told us. Then the two,
Silvanus and Timotheos, led us down
To where the river, in its winding curves,
Leaves a smooth-margined bay. With trembling sense
Of some great change impending, we drew near;
Naked we stood for that our second birth
As at our first, in spirit putting off
The flesh-stained garments of our sinful youth:
Then entered we the waters; “In the Name,
Thrice-blessèd, of the Father, and the Son,
And of the Holy Spirit” (so they spake
The mystic words), and o'er us closed the stream,
As the grave closes, and we rose again,
(As Christ, our Master, on that Easter morn),
New-born, new creatures, chosen, heirs of God.
As though a dreamer spake, with idle tales
Lulling men's minds to slumber. I for one,
And others with me, felt that God had sent
His messenger, that these glad tidings came
To call us to His kingdom; and we owned
The Christ of whom he told us. Then the two,
Silvanus and Timotheos, led us down
To where the river, in its winding curves,
Leaves a smooth-margined bay. With trembling sense
Of some great change impending, we drew near;
Naked we stood for that our second birth
As at our first, in spirit putting off
The flesh-stained garments of our sinful youth:
Then entered we the waters; “In the Name,
Thrice-blessèd, of the Father, and the Son,
And of the Holy Spirit” (so they spake
The mystic words), and o'er us closed the stream,
As the grave closes, and we rose again,
(As Christ, our Master, on that Easter morn),
62
The names were lofty, yet they spake them out,
As doubting nothing, and though memory fails
And thoughts of that high hour are grown confused
With the world's wear, and all the earth-born cares
That since have vexed our souls, I, too, believe
I felt that moment stirrings of a life
Till then unknown, the purpose fixed and strong,
(As when a soldier joins a noble band
Of warriors true) with Christ to live and die,
My Lord, my Leader, yea, my King, my God.
'Twas done, and in the newness of that life
As doubting nothing, and though memory fails
And thoughts of that high hour are grown confused
With the world's wear, and all the earth-born cares
That since have vexed our souls, I, too, believe
I felt that moment stirrings of a life
Till then unknown, the purpose fixed and strong,
(As when a soldier joins a noble band
Of warriors true) with Christ to live and die,
My Lord, my Leader, yea, my King, my God.
Some few days glided by. We lived alone,
In silent thought retracing all the past;
And then we met once more. At eventide,
When the Jews' Sabbath drew towards its close
(So heard we from our teachers, for no word
Bade us to keep that Sabbath), all the West
Yet purple, we, the new disciples, met
That pale, worn teacher in the upper room,
His home for those few days. A simple meal
Was set before us, cakes of bread, and wine,
Such as our peasants drink. That bread he blest,
Over that cup gave thanks, and we partook,
(The new-born sense of kindred breaking down
All barriers of the past) the rich, the poor,
The slave, the freeman, foes of many years,
63
We all drew near, as sharers in a life
Above our own, and so embracing all.
Oh, happiest hour, of memories full of peace,
And love ineffable, and brightest hopes,
Which even yet can gladden!
Yet there came
A moment higher still. Upon our heads
Those feeble hands were laid, and through our frames,
With strange vibrations of a rushing flood
Of thoughts and powers fresh kindling into life,
The Spirit came upon us. From our lips
Burst the strange, mystic speech of other lands,
We, too, cried, “Abba! Lord of Sabaoth!”
We, too, could raise the Hallelujah chant,
And from our feeble tongues, in wondrous tones,
As of the voice of trumpet, loud and long,
The mighty “Maranatha” smote the air.
We knew not all we spake, but evermore
The clear, loud accents thrilled through all the soul;
We praised, adoring. Men might count our words
As wild and aimless, yet to us they brought
The joy ecstatic of the eternal choirs,
The hymns of angels at the throne of God.
And others, calmer in their strength of heart,
Received new power to read the thoughts that stirred
64
Swift-darting as an arrow to their mark,
To say to this one, “Thou hast sinned, thy deed
Of secret shame is blazoned on thy brow;”
To that, “Fear not; thy hidden tears are known,
Thy yearning after peace; and God, who loves
The contrite heart, has pardoned all thy sins.”
He left us, and for years we saw him not,
But for one passing visit of a day.
Our life resumed its calm, the even months
Went on, but purer, brighter than before:
A little band of brothers, so we lived
As in the world, not of it, honouring all,
Yet loving each the other. Not for us
The idol-feast, the revel, and the song;
But true work duly done, and converse grave
As though the Lord were listening. And we met
At sunset still in each returning week,
To break that bread of life, that wine to drink,
As He, the Lord commanded. But the power
Of that first day returned not. That full burst
Of prophecy was hushed: the wondrous Tongues
In wild, mysterious sweetness came and went,
Each echo weaker as the months passed on,
Until at last they ceased, and we became
Half weary with the sameness of our lives.
And then there came new travellers, grave and stern,
Rabbis, and scribes, and teachers of the law,
Trained at Gamaliel's feet. Around their robes
That swept the ground, the broad, bright fringe of blue
Proclaimed their faith, and o'er each arm there twined
The sacred scrolls, and when they stood and prayed,
O'er brow and face they drew the mystic veil,
As Moses did of old. They came from far,
They told us, from Jerusalem the blest;
They, too, were brethren, worshippers of Christ,
And from the high Apostles went they forth,
From Cephas, James, and John, with power to rule
The Churches, and to perfect all that lacked.
But for one passing visit of a day.
Our life resumed its calm, the even months
Went on, but purer, brighter than before:
A little band of brothers, so we lived
As in the world, not of it, honouring all,
Yet loving each the other. Not for us
The idol-feast, the revel, and the song;
But true work duly done, and converse grave
As though the Lord were listening. And we met
At sunset still in each returning week,
To break that bread of life, that wine to drink,
As He, the Lord commanded. But the power
Of that first day returned not. That full burst
Of prophecy was hushed: the wondrous Tongues
In wild, mysterious sweetness came and went,
Each echo weaker as the months passed on,
Until at last they ceased, and we became
Half weary with the sameness of our lives.
65
Rabbis, and scribes, and teachers of the law,
Trained at Gamaliel's feet. Around their robes
That swept the ground, the broad, bright fringe of blue
Proclaimed their faith, and o'er each arm there twined
The sacred scrolls, and when they stood and prayed,
O'er brow and face they drew the mystic veil,
As Moses did of old. They came from far,
They told us, from Jerusalem the blest;
They, too, were brethren, worshippers of Christ,
And from the high Apostles went they forth,
From Cephas, James, and John, with power to rule
The Churches, and to perfect all that lacked.
They came among us, asking how we lived,
What Paul had done for us; and when they heard
Our simple tale, they lifted up their hands,
And tore their garments; “What, ye fools, and blind?
Ye read the Law, and break it? Know ye not
That not one tittle of that Law shall fail;
And dare ye choose, in your o'erweening pride,
Now this, now that, to keep or cast away;
And, owning Abraham's God, to slight the seal
Of Abraham's faith? Hath not His voice declared,
‘The soul that is not circumcised shall die?‘
Yet ye remain as aliens, and the laws
Which God proclaimed from Sinai ye despise.
You tell us, ‘Paul thus taught.’ We know the man,
The apostate dreamer, breaking down the wall
Which God hath built. We sent him forth to teach,
And, when we found him faithless, cast him off.
We know that tottering frame and trembling step,
True sign of wavering counsels, and a voice
That tunes itself according to the time.
He, too, can speak as we do, when he seeks
To please the Jews, his brethren. Know ye not
That young Timotheos? Him he circumcised
Who bids you trust in faith without the Law;
And he who boasts of grace and light within,
Who bids you keep no Sabbaths, hold no feasts,—
He came from Corinth to our Temple-courts,
The Nazarite's vow upon his shaven head,
A pilgrim at our feast of Pentecost.”
What Paul had done for us; and when they heard
Our simple tale, they lifted up their hands,
And tore their garments; “What, ye fools, and blind?
Ye read the Law, and break it? Know ye not
That not one tittle of that Law shall fail;
And dare ye choose, in your o'erweening pride,
Now this, now that, to keep or cast away;
And, owning Abraham's God, to slight the seal
Of Abraham's faith? Hath not His voice declared,
‘The soul that is not circumcised shall die?‘
Yet ye remain as aliens, and the laws
66
You tell us, ‘Paul thus taught.’ We know the man,
The apostate dreamer, breaking down the wall
Which God hath built. We sent him forth to teach,
And, when we found him faithless, cast him off.
We know that tottering frame and trembling step,
True sign of wavering counsels, and a voice
That tunes itself according to the time.
He, too, can speak as we do, when he seeks
To please the Jews, his brethren. Know ye not
That young Timotheos? Him he circumcised
Who bids you trust in faith without the Law;
And he who boasts of grace and light within,
Who bids you keep no Sabbaths, hold no feasts,—
He came from Corinth to our Temple-courts,
The Nazarite's vow upon his shaven head,
A pilgrim at our feast of Pentecost.”
Their words seemed strong. We knew not what to say;
And some of us were weak, by subtle spell
Bewitched and overcome; and some held back,
Stedfast, though trembling, to the truth they loved,—
These, frowned upon, shut out, as self-condemned;
Those, courted, favoured, honoured, led about
As proselytes indeed. I took my place
With those who followed Paul. With heavy heart
And thought half-doubting, still I kept my ground.
I saw no fruit that answered to their boasts,
No spirit-stirring power, or peace, or love;
But envy, strife, debate, the gathering clouds,
Forerunners of a storm: in every home
Three against two divided, and the Church
Crumbled and broken by the war of sects.
They could not read our hearts: no searching words
Of insight or of pity won their way
To stubborn souls. They told not of the Cross,
With all its power to bless; but still they spake
Of Moses, and the Sabbath, and the rules
And customs of the elders, joying most
When greetings loud of “Rabbi” met their ears,
And plenteous offerings filled their spacious bags,
And men bowed down in homage as they passed.
And some of us were weak, by subtle spell
Bewitched and overcome; and some held back,
Stedfast, though trembling, to the truth they loved,—
These, frowned upon, shut out, as self-condemned;
Those, courted, favoured, honoured, led about
As proselytes indeed. I took my place
With those who followed Paul. With heavy heart
67
I saw no fruit that answered to their boasts,
No spirit-stirring power, or peace, or love;
But envy, strife, debate, the gathering clouds,
Forerunners of a storm: in every home
Three against two divided, and the Church
Crumbled and broken by the war of sects.
They could not read our hearts: no searching words
Of insight or of pity won their way
To stubborn souls. They told not of the Cross,
With all its power to bless; but still they spake
Of Moses, and the Sabbath, and the rules
And customs of the elders, joying most
When greetings loud of “Rabbi” met their ears,
And plenteous offerings filled their spacious bags,
And men bowed down in homage as they passed.
And now there comes this letter. Bold and strong
Are those clear notes of warning. “Not from man,
Or man's consent, have I this Gospel preached,
And man shall not control me.” Half in love,
And half in pity, pours the tide of thought,
Its currents strangely mingled. Much mounts up
To heights I cannot reach. Its subtle art
In part bewilders;—how the Law, of old,
Was given by angels, 'stablished in the hand
Of one who stood half-way 'twixt men and God,
The mediator, Moses, and in this
Must yield the palm to that diviner word
Which God himself in all his oneness spake
To Abraham and his seed, that seed being Christ,
(No Mediator there), and we in Him,
Sharing his Sonship, recognised as heirs:
How Hagar, wandering in the desert wild,
The bond-slave with her son, had shadowed forth
The rocks of Sinai terrible and dread,
The bondage of Jerusalem that is;
While Sara, princess-mother of the free,
Claims as her children all the chosen seed,
Heirs of the heavenly city: once again,
How that the Law was as the slave who leads
The wayward boy to school, and keeps in bounds,
Chastising, warning, checking, till at last
The one true Teacher comes, and, heir of all,
The boy starts up to manhood, and is free.
All this I wondered at, as dazed and stunned
By thoughts so strangely new; but much is plain
That he may run who reads. He will not yield
One jot to those his foes, and scorn for scorn
With usury repays. In tenderest words,
Reminding us of all our former love,
He chides us for our folly, bids us know
That they who seek to glory in our flesh,
In cutting that do cut us off from Christ;
That not through zeal for God, but fear of man,
They build again the poor, weak thoughts of old,
And prove themselves transgressors. Yea, at last
In bolder speech, with touch of sarcasm rough,
He tells those preachers of a fleshly rite
That he, for his part, wishes they would make
Their work more thorough, holding rank with those
Who serve the Goddess-mother at her shrines;
Fit end for those who linger in the past,
The dead, decaying past, and look not on
To all the freedom of the age to come.
Are those clear notes of warning. “Not from man,
Or man's consent, have I this Gospel preached,
And man shall not control me.” Half in love,
And half in pity, pours the tide of thought,
Its currents strangely mingled. Much mounts up
To heights I cannot reach. Its subtle art
In part bewilders;—how the Law, of old,
Was given by angels, 'stablished in the hand
Of one who stood half-way 'twixt men and God,
The mediator, Moses, and in this
68
Which God himself in all his oneness spake
To Abraham and his seed, that seed being Christ,
(No Mediator there), and we in Him,
Sharing his Sonship, recognised as heirs:
How Hagar, wandering in the desert wild,
The bond-slave with her son, had shadowed forth
The rocks of Sinai terrible and dread,
The bondage of Jerusalem that is;
While Sara, princess-mother of the free,
Claims as her children all the chosen seed,
Heirs of the heavenly city: once again,
How that the Law was as the slave who leads
The wayward boy to school, and keeps in bounds,
Chastising, warning, checking, till at last
The one true Teacher comes, and, heir of all,
The boy starts up to manhood, and is free.
All this I wondered at, as dazed and stunned
By thoughts so strangely new; but much is plain
That he may run who reads. He will not yield
One jot to those his foes, and scorn for scorn
With usury repays. In tenderest words,
Reminding us of all our former love,
He chides us for our folly, bids us know
That they who seek to glory in our flesh,
In cutting that do cut us off from Christ;
That not through zeal for God, but fear of man,
They build again the poor, weak thoughts of old,
69
In bolder speech, with touch of sarcasm rough,
He tells those preachers of a fleshly rite
That he, for his part, wishes they would make
Their work more thorough, holding rank with those
Who serve the Goddess-mother at her shrines;
Fit end for those who linger in the past,
The dead, decaying past, and look not on
To all the freedom of the age to come.
I too will claim that freedom. Every pulse
Of old affection kindles into life;
The mists of doubt are scattered; and the Truth
Shines clearer than before, and every name
Of our old worship, or of Hebrew law,
Yields to the one great Name, no longer strange,
Of Christ the Lord, the Brother of mankind,
Their Saviour and their King. Lord, hear our prayer:
If ever we have bowed before Thy Cross,
If ever we have looked upon Thy wounds,
When Paul's full speech made present once again
What passed on Golgotha, Oh! grant us, Lord,
With Paul, to claim thy Spirit, yea, to feel
The travail-pangs, till in our soul be formed
The new, diviner man; and all our life
Pass on, unwavering, to the Eternal Home.
Of old affection kindles into life;
The mists of doubt are scattered; and the Truth
Shines clearer than before, and every name
Of our old worship, or of Hebrew law,
Yields to the one great Name, no longer strange,
Of Christ the Lord, the Brother of mankind,
Their Saviour and their King. Lord, hear our prayer:
If ever we have bowed before Thy Cross,
If ever we have looked upon Thy wounds,
When Paul's full speech made present once again
What passed on Golgotha, Oh! grant us, Lord,
With Paul, to claim thy Spirit, yea, to feel
The travail-pangs, till in our soul be formed
The new, diviner man; and all our life
Pass on, unwavering, to the Eternal Home.
May, 1864.
70
JESUS BAR-ABBAS.
Well! the escape was narrow. Seven long weeks
I lay expecting death, for Pilate's wrath
Was kindled into frenzy. I had dared,
When that proud tyrant 'gainst the Lord of Hosts
Had raised his banners, and with hands profane
To build his stately tower by Siloam's pool,
Had seized our sacred Corban,—I had dared,
I say, to head the Zealots in their fight.
They chose me for their leader; found in me,
Robber and outlaw though I be, the man
They needed for their struggle. But the spears
Of Rome's strong legions smote us, and we fled;
And I, with some few others of our band,
Was seized, and marked for death. Do thou, O Lord!
For this my zeal forgive me all my sins;
And when I die receive me to Thyself
In Abraham's bosom, where the heroes old
Who fought against the Syrian rest in peace.
I need make some atonement. With these hands
I have made women childless, burnt the huts
Of peasants, seized the traveller on his way,
And left him stript and wounded: this I own;
Yet am I not so base as others are;
For never have I bowed the knee in prayer
To any heathen god, and still have kept
The creed my Rabbi father taught my youth;
And ever, when the solemn seasons came,
We went in pilgrim-guise to keep the feast,
And thronged the Temple courts. A double gain
Those journeys brought: we worshipped, and we robbed.
The pilgrims coming with their gifts and gold,
From North and South, from furthest East and West,
But chiefly the rich proselytes of Rome—
We marked them for our prey. But most we loved
To glut at once our rapine and our hate,
And, laying hold of some centurion proud,
To bind him hand and foot, to seize his gold,
And mocking all his cries, by fear of death
To make him curse his gods, and, bending low,
Proclaim himself a convert. 'Twas a life
Of hair-breadth 'scapes, and ventures strange and wild,
Now starved and naked, now with wine and mirth
Filled to our heart's content. And so we lived,
A band of brothers, not without the ties
Of equal risks and hopes, until that hour
When, as I said, the Roman soldiers seized
Our struggling troop, and we were doomed to death.
There lay I in my dungeon, bound with chains,
And soldiers keeping guard. No friends might come
To give the robber-chief one kindly look,
Or tell him how the world went on without;
And, those rough Romans speaking scarce a word
Of our old Hebrew, little reached my ears
Of what was passing, till the Paschal feast
Drew crowds of pilgrims. Then I heard the tramp
Of constant feet below my dungeon walls;
And once a shout, the cry of eager boys
And Galilean peasants, and the throng
Of dwellers in our city. Loud they raised
Their clear Hosannas, blessing One they owned
As Son of David—Israel's longed-for king.
And he passed by me, in that pageant strange,
Not riding in his chariot, or reclined
In stately litter, but as those of old,
Our judges, rode on asses, so did he;
And, as he came, they shouted, and with palms
Fresh cut bestrewed the way. I heard the cry,
And said within myself, “This will not last;
I have seen many such. Rome's mighty arm
Will crush these rebel-kings out, one by one;
And he who now rides on, whoe'er he be,
Will die as I shall die. Who knows? Perchance
The self-same hour may witness both our deaths.”
Then came a silence. For some nights and days
I nothing heard, but still expecting death,
Lay there in darkness; when at last a voice
Was heard, in foreign accents, at my cell:
“Bar-Abbas, Pilate calls thee.” “Now,” I thought,
“My hour is come at last.” I said my creed,—
“Hear, Israel, hear, the Lord thy God is One,”—
In haste, that I might die as Abraham's son,
And claim my place in Eden. Then I went,
Close following the centurion who had called;
And as I drew toward the opening gate,
The wild, fierce murmur of the people smote
Upon my ears. I thought I heard my name
Mingled with cries and curses. Then I stood
Before great Pilate, in his purple robes,
Upon his pavement seated. And his voice,
As one half-choked with anger, shame, and grief,
Making me wonder, told me, “Thou art free;
The people claim thee: go thy way and live.”
So strange it all appeared, I stood amazed,
As one who, waking from a dream, half doubts
Whether he still be sleeping; but ere long
They told me all the story. “That poor king,”
They said, “had roused the wrath of all our priests,
And all the hostile schools of rival Scribes,
Baffling their art, and laying low their pride,
And speaking still of judgments sharp and swift
As hanging o'er their heads. Among the Twelve,
His chosen friends and followers, one they found
A traitor; and by night he led them forth
Across the Kedron to Gethsemane,
Just on the slope of Olivet. All hushed,
The city slept in moonlight. Every house
Had had its Paschal feast, when that armed band,
With lights and torches, followed on the track
By which the traitor led them. Then they seized
Their prisoner; and in haste, at dead of night,
They summoned the great Council of our land
And found him guilty. Then to Pilate's hall
They led him (for they durst not, of themselves,
Pilate being present, put the man to death),
And clamouring loud, with charges swarming thick,
Pressed eager for his life. But Pilate's heart
Misgave him, and he would not. Well he knew
Their malice and their envy. And the hours
Passed on in wavering counsels: now he spake
In secret with the prisoner, half-inclined
To pity one so weak; now sent him bound
To Herod for his trial; then perplexed
And fearing, thought to win the people's heart
By offering them a prisoner, whom they would,
For freedom on the instant, doubting not
That they would choose the king whose pageant proud
A few days since had swept along the streets.
When lo! wild shouts of frenzy rent the air,
‘Not this man, but Bar-Abbas!’ So our priests,
Wily and wise, had planned their scheme before,
Knowing the people loved me for my zeal;
And, seeing in me still a Rabbi's son,
They plotted for their order. So it was,
We stood there in the presence of the crowd,
That Galilean prisoner-king, and I,
Jesus Bar-Abbas,—I, in pride of strength,
Towering above the people by a head,
As Saul above the hosts of Israel;
And he, that other Jesus, standing there,
Pale, worn, and crowned with thorns. I, free at last,
The robber and the murderer, shouts of praise
Still ringing in my ears, and he, the just,
(So Pilate owned him, and his silent calm
Bore the same witness), scourged, condemned to die,
Mocks, taunts, revilings adding stings to death.
I lay expecting death, for Pilate's wrath
Was kindled into frenzy. I had dared,
When that proud tyrant 'gainst the Lord of Hosts
Had raised his banners, and with hands profane
To build his stately tower by Siloam's pool,
Had seized our sacred Corban,—I had dared,
I say, to head the Zealots in their fight.
They chose me for their leader; found in me,
Robber and outlaw though I be, the man
They needed for their struggle. But the spears
Of Rome's strong legions smote us, and we fled;
And I, with some few others of our band,
Was seized, and marked for death. Do thou, O Lord!
For this my zeal forgive me all my sins;
And when I die receive me to Thyself
In Abraham's bosom, where the heroes old
71
I need make some atonement. With these hands
I have made women childless, burnt the huts
Of peasants, seized the traveller on his way,
And left him stript and wounded: this I own;
Yet am I not so base as others are;
For never have I bowed the knee in prayer
To any heathen god, and still have kept
The creed my Rabbi father taught my youth;
And ever, when the solemn seasons came,
We went in pilgrim-guise to keep the feast,
And thronged the Temple courts. A double gain
Those journeys brought: we worshipped, and we robbed.
The pilgrims coming with their gifts and gold,
From North and South, from furthest East and West,
But chiefly the rich proselytes of Rome—
We marked them for our prey. But most we loved
To glut at once our rapine and our hate,
And, laying hold of some centurion proud,
To bind him hand and foot, to seize his gold,
And mocking all his cries, by fear of death
To make him curse his gods, and, bending low,
Proclaim himself a convert. 'Twas a life
Of hair-breadth 'scapes, and ventures strange and wild,
Now starved and naked, now with wine and mirth
72
A band of brothers, not without the ties
Of equal risks and hopes, until that hour
When, as I said, the Roman soldiers seized
Our struggling troop, and we were doomed to death.
There lay I in my dungeon, bound with chains,
And soldiers keeping guard. No friends might come
To give the robber-chief one kindly look,
Or tell him how the world went on without;
And, those rough Romans speaking scarce a word
Of our old Hebrew, little reached my ears
Of what was passing, till the Paschal feast
Drew crowds of pilgrims. Then I heard the tramp
Of constant feet below my dungeon walls;
And once a shout, the cry of eager boys
And Galilean peasants, and the throng
Of dwellers in our city. Loud they raised
Their clear Hosannas, blessing One they owned
As Son of David—Israel's longed-for king.
And he passed by me, in that pageant strange,
Not riding in his chariot, or reclined
In stately litter, but as those of old,
Our judges, rode on asses, so did he;
And, as he came, they shouted, and with palms
Fresh cut bestrewed the way. I heard the cry,
And said within myself, “This will not last;
I have seen many such. Rome's mighty arm
73
And he who now rides on, whoe'er he be,
Will die as I shall die. Who knows? Perchance
The self-same hour may witness both our deaths.”
Then came a silence. For some nights and days
I nothing heard, but still expecting death,
Lay there in darkness; when at last a voice
Was heard, in foreign accents, at my cell:
“Bar-Abbas, Pilate calls thee.” “Now,” I thought,
“My hour is come at last.” I said my creed,—
“Hear, Israel, hear, the Lord thy God is One,”—
In haste, that I might die as Abraham's son,
And claim my place in Eden. Then I went,
Close following the centurion who had called;
And as I drew toward the opening gate,
The wild, fierce murmur of the people smote
Upon my ears. I thought I heard my name
Mingled with cries and curses. Then I stood
Before great Pilate, in his purple robes,
Upon his pavement seated. And his voice,
As one half-choked with anger, shame, and grief,
Making me wonder, told me, “Thou art free;
The people claim thee: go thy way and live.”
So strange it all appeared, I stood amazed,
As one who, waking from a dream, half doubts
Whether he still be sleeping; but ere long
They told me all the story. “That poor king,”
They said, “had roused the wrath of all our priests,
74
Baffling their art, and laying low their pride,
And speaking still of judgments sharp and swift
As hanging o'er their heads. Among the Twelve,
His chosen friends and followers, one they found
A traitor; and by night he led them forth
Across the Kedron to Gethsemane,
Just on the slope of Olivet. All hushed,
The city slept in moonlight. Every house
Had had its Paschal feast, when that armed band,
With lights and torches, followed on the track
By which the traitor led them. Then they seized
Their prisoner; and in haste, at dead of night,
They summoned the great Council of our land
And found him guilty. Then to Pilate's hall
They led him (for they durst not, of themselves,
Pilate being present, put the man to death),
And clamouring loud, with charges swarming thick,
Pressed eager for his life. But Pilate's heart
Misgave him, and he would not. Well he knew
Their malice and their envy. And the hours
Passed on in wavering counsels: now he spake
In secret with the prisoner, half-inclined
To pity one so weak; now sent him bound
To Herod for his trial; then perplexed
And fearing, thought to win the people's heart
By offering them a prisoner, whom they would,
For freedom on the instant, doubting not
75
A few days since had swept along the streets.
When lo! wild shouts of frenzy rent the air,
‘Not this man, but Bar-Abbas!’ So our priests,
Wily and wise, had planned their scheme before,
Knowing the people loved me for my zeal;
And, seeing in me still a Rabbi's son,
They plotted for their order. So it was,
We stood there in the presence of the crowd,
That Galilean prisoner-king, and I,
Jesus Bar-Abbas,—I, in pride of strength,
Towering above the people by a head,
As Saul above the hosts of Israel;
And he, that other Jesus, standing there,
Pale, worn, and crowned with thorns. I, free at last,
The robber and the murderer, shouts of praise
Still ringing in my ears, and he, the just,
(So Pilate owned him, and his silent calm
Bore the same witness), scourged, condemned to die,
Mocks, taunts, revilings adding stings to death.
At first the crowd received me, bore me on
As in a car of triumph; then, half wild
With joy and wonder, following where they led,
I joined the crowd that, streaming through the gate,
Passed on to Golgotha. I stood and watched
The three led forth to death. All faint and weak,
And sinking 'neath the burden of his cross,
The prophet-teacher came. The other two
Were sharers with me in my outlaw life,
With me had plundered, revelled, dwelt in caves;
Or in the forest-depths of Gilead's hills,
With me had dared defy our Roman lords,
With me were taken prisoners. Now their hour
Was come, yet still they quailed not. Hard and bold,
They drank the spicèd wine-cup, which benumbs
The nerves of sense, and through the reeling brain
Sends snatches of old songs, forgotten jests,
And mirth that mounts to madness. So they met
The torture of that hour: no cry of pain
Came from their lips when through the quivering flesh
They drove the torturing nails. With brow compressed
And look defiant, they endured the shame,
And hanging there, beneath the sultry sun,
Naked and bleeding, speechless bore it all.
And he was speechless too, the third, whose cross
Between them stood, but oh! how wide the gulf
That lay between his silence, meek and calm,
Eyes lifted up to Heaven, and murmured prayer,
When those rough soldiers nailed them to the cross,
‘Father, forgive them’ (so I caught the words),
‘They know not what they do;’ and that dumb wrath,
The fiercer for repression, which in them
Crushed out all pity. Soon the contrast grew
More wondrous still. A love that conquered pain,
The joy of one who sees his work achieved,
The full compassion going forth to all,
These brightened all the furrows of that face
With glory from the Throne. But they, my friends,
When the first throbs were over, waxing bold,
(That well-drugged wine-draught rushing through their veins)
With jest as rough, and laugh as loud and free,
As when of old our comrades met to feast
After the day's marauding, turned on him,
That silent sufferer, with reproach and scoff,
Re-echoing taunts that came from worthier lips,
From priests and scribes who stood in pride of place,
Exulting o'er their victim; ‘Hail, O king!
Thou Son of David on thy father's throne,’
(So spake they with mock homage) ‘prove thy strength,
Put forth thy might to vanquish all thy foes;
If thou be Christ, Anointed of the Lord,
Come down unbleeding from the accursèd tree,
And claim us as thine own.’ I could not join
Those mockers in their taunts. ‘He fills my place;’
So thought I with myself. ‘He dies for me;
And but for Him I too were hanging there,
My sins upon my head. From me at least
He claims some pity.’ So I silent stood:
But those, the other two, upon their trees,
Caught up the scoff, and with the keener zest
That torment gives to outrage, raised the cry,
‘O Son of David, Lord of Abraham's seed,
O King of Israel, save thyself and us!’
He heard, but answered not. One pitying look
He turned to those who mocked, one upward glance
Of love and prayer unspoken, and there fell
On him and them a silence. O'er the sky
A darkness stole, as when the sun's eclipse
Affrights the nations, and the mocks were hushed,
Till yet once more, as if to cheat his pain,
From one poor sufferer came the words of scorn,
‘Thou Son of David, save thyself and us!’
But now a change had come. No echoing voice
Spake from that other cross. In days of old,
I well remember, Dysmas had a touch
Of woman's softness in him, shrank from blood
Save when the fight was hot, and sometimes turned
To help the stript and plundered as they lay.
I call to mind some thirty summers back,
When first he came among us, brave and tall,
Half-joying in our freedom, half-afraid
Of our wild, lawless life, there came our way
A mother and her child, and one who seemed
To both a fostering father. Poor they were,
But that we heeded not; unarmed and weak;
That only drew us on. If small the prize,
Small, too, the danger. So we seized the three,
And soon had robbed them of their scanty all;
But Dysmas, then some eighteen winters old,
Begged hard for mercy. Something touched his heart;
The mother's grief, that spake to him of home,
The blameless child that smiling stretched his hand,
As pardoning those who wronged him; and he asked
One favour only, giving up his share
That day of all our plunder, that the three,
The husband, and the mother, and the child,
By his right hand defended from all foes,
Might journey to the city where they dwelt.
So was it then: and such a change of mood
Passed o'er him now. I know not if he traced
In that pale, weeping mother, bowed with grief,
And faint, as though a sword had pierced her heart,
The grace and beauty that had swayed his soul;
Or if, perchance, that pitying look of love,
That brow all bleeding with the crown of thorns,
Recalled the smiling child, with outstretched hands,
Rejoicing, loving, trusting. This I know,
That when the taunting words were heard again,
A righteous anger flushing all his frame,
He spake the stern rebuke: ‘And fear'st thou not?
Is this a time for mock and scoff and jest,
When thou, too, standest face to face with death?
We in our guilt, deserving all the shame,
Reaping the harvest sown through many a year,
While he whom thou revilest, righteous, true,
Obedient, gentle, hath done nought amiss.’
Then, turning with a new-born trust, he looked
To that poor sufferer dying on his cross,
As if he were indeed great David's Son,
Anointed of the Lord: ‘Remember me,
O Lord, when thou shalt come in glorious pomp
To claim thy kingdom; Oh, remember me!’
He spake as one whose heart was pouring forth
The fulness of its craving, all its life
Depending on the answer, all its joy
Wrapt up in that one word, its deepest woe
The thought of being forgotten. Oft of old,
Like others of our band, he had his dreams
Of that great kingdom of the Christ to come,
The armies conquering at their chief's command,
The arrows sharp to drink the foeman's blood,
The chariot sweeping o'er the prostrate ranks,
The kingly throne on Zion's height restored,
Jerusalem once more a pride and joy.
Such dreams, it may be, floated o'er his soul
In that last prayer. If so, one single word
Dispersed them. When the answer came, it spake
Of no proud pageant of the pomps of earth,
But gave the promise of a night of peace
After that noon of torture; cooling streams
After that fevered thirst; for writhing limbs,
And naked shame, and taunts of mocking crowds,
The land as Eden fair, where gales of balm
O'er soft, green meadows murmur evermore.
‘Fear not; thou shalt be with me;’ so the words,
Like low, soft music, sounded in mine ears,
‘With me, within the Paradise of God.’
I heard it, and before my soul there rose
A vision of the past, when I, a child,
Guiltless as yet, my hands unstained with blood,
Heard from a mother's lips of that blest home,
And God, and His good angels. And I looked
At Dysmas, and beheld the languid eye
Kindle with hope, the furrowed brow expand,
The closed lips move in blessing. More and more,
Unless my sight played false, those features grew
Into another's likeness, imaged back
The calmness of that sufferer on His cross:
The hardness and the stains of many years
Dropt off as in a moment, and disclosed
The nobler nature of the new-born man.
'Twas strange; I could but marvel as I gazed,
And stranger thoughts stirred in me. Who was this
That, lifted on the cross, had power to draw
The hearts of all men to him? Who might tell
The secret of his life? Was this the end,
This shame and torture, this prevailing love,
This hour of darkness, this triumphant joy?
As in a car of triumph; then, half wild
With joy and wonder, following where they led,
I joined the crowd that, streaming through the gate,
Passed on to Golgotha. I stood and watched
The three led forth to death. All faint and weak,
And sinking 'neath the burden of his cross,
76
Were sharers with me in my outlaw life,
With me had plundered, revelled, dwelt in caves;
Or in the forest-depths of Gilead's hills,
With me had dared defy our Roman lords,
With me were taken prisoners. Now their hour
Was come, yet still they quailed not. Hard and bold,
They drank the spicèd wine-cup, which benumbs
The nerves of sense, and through the reeling brain
Sends snatches of old songs, forgotten jests,
And mirth that mounts to madness. So they met
The torture of that hour: no cry of pain
Came from their lips when through the quivering flesh
They drove the torturing nails. With brow compressed
And look defiant, they endured the shame,
And hanging there, beneath the sultry sun,
Naked and bleeding, speechless bore it all.
And he was speechless too, the third, whose cross
Between them stood, but oh! how wide the gulf
That lay between his silence, meek and calm,
Eyes lifted up to Heaven, and murmured prayer,
When those rough soldiers nailed them to the cross,
‘Father, forgive them’ (so I caught the words),
‘They know not what they do;’ and that dumb wrath,
77
Crushed out all pity. Soon the contrast grew
More wondrous still. A love that conquered pain,
The joy of one who sees his work achieved,
The full compassion going forth to all,
These brightened all the furrows of that face
With glory from the Throne. But they, my friends,
When the first throbs were over, waxing bold,
(That well-drugged wine-draught rushing through their veins)
With jest as rough, and laugh as loud and free,
As when of old our comrades met to feast
After the day's marauding, turned on him,
That silent sufferer, with reproach and scoff,
Re-echoing taunts that came from worthier lips,
From priests and scribes who stood in pride of place,
Exulting o'er their victim; ‘Hail, O king!
Thou Son of David on thy father's throne,’
(So spake they with mock homage) ‘prove thy strength,
Put forth thy might to vanquish all thy foes;
If thou be Christ, Anointed of the Lord,
Come down unbleeding from the accursèd tree,
And claim us as thine own.’ I could not join
Those mockers in their taunts. ‘He fills my place;’
So thought I with myself. ‘He dies for me;
And but for Him I too were hanging there,
78
He claims some pity.’ So I silent stood:
But those, the other two, upon their trees,
Caught up the scoff, and with the keener zest
That torment gives to outrage, raised the cry,
‘O Son of David, Lord of Abraham's seed,
O King of Israel, save thyself and us!’
He heard, but answered not. One pitying look
He turned to those who mocked, one upward glance
Of love and prayer unspoken, and there fell
On him and them a silence. O'er the sky
A darkness stole, as when the sun's eclipse
Affrights the nations, and the mocks were hushed,
Till yet once more, as if to cheat his pain,
From one poor sufferer came the words of scorn,
‘Thou Son of David, save thyself and us!’
But now a change had come. No echoing voice
Spake from that other cross. In days of old,
I well remember, Dysmas had a touch
Of woman's softness in him, shrank from blood
Save when the fight was hot, and sometimes turned
To help the stript and plundered as they lay.
I call to mind some thirty summers back,
When first he came among us, brave and tall,
Half-joying in our freedom, half-afraid
Of our wild, lawless life, there came our way
A mother and her child, and one who seemed
To both a fostering father. Poor they were,
79
That only drew us on. If small the prize,
Small, too, the danger. So we seized the three,
And soon had robbed them of their scanty all;
But Dysmas, then some eighteen winters old,
Begged hard for mercy. Something touched his heart;
The mother's grief, that spake to him of home,
The blameless child that smiling stretched his hand,
As pardoning those who wronged him; and he asked
One favour only, giving up his share
That day of all our plunder, that the three,
The husband, and the mother, and the child,
By his right hand defended from all foes,
Might journey to the city where they dwelt.
So was it then: and such a change of mood
Passed o'er him now. I know not if he traced
In that pale, weeping mother, bowed with grief,
And faint, as though a sword had pierced her heart,
The grace and beauty that had swayed his soul;
Or if, perchance, that pitying look of love,
That brow all bleeding with the crown of thorns,
Recalled the smiling child, with outstretched hands,
Rejoicing, loving, trusting. This I know,
That when the taunting words were heard again,
A righteous anger flushing all his frame,
He spake the stern rebuke: ‘And fear'st thou not?
80
When thou, too, standest face to face with death?
We in our guilt, deserving all the shame,
Reaping the harvest sown through many a year,
While he whom thou revilest, righteous, true,
Obedient, gentle, hath done nought amiss.’
Then, turning with a new-born trust, he looked
To that poor sufferer dying on his cross,
As if he were indeed great David's Son,
Anointed of the Lord: ‘Remember me,
O Lord, when thou shalt come in glorious pomp
To claim thy kingdom; Oh, remember me!’
He spake as one whose heart was pouring forth
The fulness of its craving, all its life
Depending on the answer, all its joy
Wrapt up in that one word, its deepest woe
The thought of being forgotten. Oft of old,
Like others of our band, he had his dreams
Of that great kingdom of the Christ to come,
The armies conquering at their chief's command,
The arrows sharp to drink the foeman's blood,
The chariot sweeping o'er the prostrate ranks,
The kingly throne on Zion's height restored,
Jerusalem once more a pride and joy.
Such dreams, it may be, floated o'er his soul
In that last prayer. If so, one single word
Dispersed them. When the answer came, it spake
Of no proud pageant of the pomps of earth,
81
After that noon of torture; cooling streams
After that fevered thirst; for writhing limbs,
And naked shame, and taunts of mocking crowds,
The land as Eden fair, where gales of balm
O'er soft, green meadows murmur evermore.
‘Fear not; thou shalt be with me;’ so the words,
Like low, soft music, sounded in mine ears,
‘With me, within the Paradise of God.’
I heard it, and before my soul there rose
A vision of the past, when I, a child,
Guiltless as yet, my hands unstained with blood,
Heard from a mother's lips of that blest home,
And God, and His good angels. And I looked
At Dysmas, and beheld the languid eye
Kindle with hope, the furrowed brow expand,
The closed lips move in blessing. More and more,
Unless my sight played false, those features grew
Into another's likeness, imaged back
The calmness of that sufferer on His cross:
The hardness and the stains of many years
Dropt off as in a moment, and disclosed
The nobler nature of the new-born man.
'Twas strange; I could but marvel as I gazed,
And stranger thoughts stirred in me. Who was this
That, lifted on the cross, had power to draw
The hearts of all men to him? Who might tell
The secret of his life? Was this the end,
82
This hour of darkness, this triumphant joy?
As yet these things are hidden from mine eyes;
They lie behind the veil. But through my soul,
With lightning force, there flashes the new thought
That not for all the wealth of Rome's great lords,
Nor all the state that dazzled Sheba's queen,
Would I against that Holy One stir hand
Or foot, speak word, or in my thoughts
Plan aught of evil. This I know, that I,
If by a wish I might undo the past,
Would fain live o'er again my term of years,
Win back the vanished past, and, as of old
I clutched the traveller's gold with eager grasp,
Would seize that kingdom, pressing on in haste,
That none might get before me, owning him
As king, content to follow in his path,
Bearing my cross for him, as now for me
He has borne his. And when my death-time comes,
May that all-pitying look be with me still,
Those tones of mercy lull my soul to rest,
That dream of Paradise enwrap me round!
They lie behind the veil. But through my soul,
With lightning force, there flashes the new thought
That not for all the wealth of Rome's great lords,
Nor all the state that dazzled Sheba's queen,
Would I against that Holy One stir hand
Or foot, speak word, or in my thoughts
Plan aught of evil. This I know, that I,
If by a wish I might undo the past,
Would fain live o'er again my term of years,
Win back the vanished past, and, as of old
I clutched the traveller's gold with eager grasp,
Would seize that kingdom, pressing on in haste,
That none might get before me, owning him
As king, content to follow in his path,
Bearing my cross for him, as now for me
He has borne his. And when my death-time comes,
May that all-pitying look be with me still,
Those tones of mercy lull my soul to rest,
That dream of Paradise enwrap me round!
What followed then I saw not. Gathering thoughts
Made my eyes dim with strange, unwonted tears,
And full of very shame lest priests and scribes,
Soldiers and people, should detect the change,
‘The wild Bar-Abbas in a melting mood!’
I crept away, as thick the shadows fell,
And saw and heard no more. But I will find,
Soon as the Sabbath sun has run his course,
Some who shall tell me all my heart's desire,
Disciples of the Master whom I too
Am fain to follow. I will ask of them
What drew them to Him, how they won his love:
And so, perchance, this day shall be to me
As to our fathers was that Paschal feast,
When Israel came from Egypt, leading on
To life and freedom, making all things new.”
Made my eyes dim with strange, unwonted tears,
And full of very shame lest priests and scribes,
Soldiers and people, should detect the change,
‘The wild Bar-Abbas in a melting mood!’
83
And saw and heard no more. But I will find,
Soon as the Sabbath sun has run his course,
Some who shall tell me all my heart's desire,
Disciples of the Master whom I too
Am fain to follow. I will ask of them
What drew them to Him, how they won his love:
And so, perchance, this day shall be to me
As to our fathers was that Paschal feast,
When Israel came from Egypt, leading on
To life and freedom, making all things new.”
June, 1864
84
GOMER.
“And the Lord said to Hosea, Go, take unto thee a wife of whoredoms. . .
So he went and took Gomer the daughter of Diblaim.”
—Hosea i. 2, 3.
Oh, sorrow of all sorrows! death of deaths!
The springs of blessing poisoned at their source!
The shadows falling ere the day is done!
I watch the ghastly ruins of my life,
The shattered columns of a vanished joy,
And through them wanders every beast unclean,
And o'er them sweeps the moaning of the blast;
And in my woe I travel o'er again
The strange, drear path that leaves me here alone,
Bowed down in shame, dishonoured, reft of all,
And haunted by the memory of past joys.
Far other was I, when in youth's first dawn
I wandered joyous o'er Samaria's hills,
Life's golden hopes before me. I was clean
From all pollution of the sense or soul;
I never bowed the knee at Moloch's shrine,
Nor joined in dance to queenly Ashtaroth,
85
Sang praise to Baal in Zidonian fanes:
True to my fathers' fame I kept their faith,
And cleaving to the prophets of our land,
The few bright stars that shone in murkiest night,
Became as one of them. We lived in peace
Where Jordan's windings glad the palm-girt plain;
Loud-swelling anthems sang the praise of God,
Our full-toned voices thundered out the words
That Moses heard on Sinai from the Lord;
And oft at eve our grey-haired seers would tell
Of those two mightiest prophets, Israel's pride,
Chariots and horsemen, strong to save or slay,
The Tishbite, and the peasant, Shaphat's son,
From fair Meholah. And the months passed on;
We sowed and reaped, we planted and we built,
Working and praying, till the toil became
Itself a worship. Words of mystic power
Came from my lips, when o'er me poured the flood
Of surging sound, the rushing, mighty wind
Sweeping the chords of life, and stirring thoughts
That must find utterance. And I dreamt my dream
Of honoured age, the crown of honoured life;
I saw myself, my white hairs flowing down,
The snowy mantle reaching to my feet,
And round me gathered all the prophet-band
That owned me as their master; and I stood,
86
As Samuel stood of old.
And now I sit,
All lonely, homeless, weary of my life,
Thick darkness round me, and the stars all dumb,
That chanted erst their wondrous tale of joy.
And thou hast done it all, O faithless one!
O Gomer! whom I loved as never wife
Was loved in Israel, all the wrong is thine!
Thy hand hath spoilèd all my tender vines,
Thy foot hath trampled all my pleasant fruits,
Thy sin hath laid my honour in the dust.
Men throw the blame on me, they mock my grief;
They wondered at my choice, and whispered words—
“The prophet woo the harlot!”—told their scorn.
They saw in me the poor, weak victim-fool
Of beauty's power to bow the strongest will,
To taint the purest, drive the wisest mad.
Yet call I God to witness, not from pulse
Of sensuous passion thrilling through the veins,
Or love of outward beauty, sought I thee,
And won thee as my bride. Nor charge I thee
With feignèd semblance of a blameless life,
The eyes cast down, and veilèd cheeks that flush,
When looks admiring tell their power to charm.
Not blinded or deceived I made my choice;
I knew thy alien blood, thy wanton heart:
87
I watched thee, when the summer sun went down,
And in the purple gleamed the silvery moon
Walking in brightness, join the priestess-throng
In mystic dance, thy timbrel in thy hand,
Thy bright eyes flashing fire, thy streaming hair
O'er neck and bosom falling, all thy soul
Bound by the wild enchantment; and I knew
What followed on the revel, and for grief
And shame I wept. “So fallen, yet so young!
So fair and bright! so stained, polluted, vile!”
And sorrow passed to pity, pity grew
To yearning love. To seek and save the lost,
To call thee mine, and bring thee back to God,
Became the master-passion of my heart,
Forgetful of my calling and my fame:
And never in the hour when rushing streams
Of light from Heaven have flooded all my soul,
Or clear, low whispers from the Eternal Word
Have pointed out my path, have I believed
More firmly that my will was one with God's,
His oracle my one unerring guide,
Than in that hour when all my heart was thine.
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 children grew; they smiled their infant smiles;
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.”
They lisped with prattling whispers, and they called
Me “father;” and my heart was bowed with woe.
At eve I sat, and watched them as they slept,
With gentler thoughts. “Plead with your mother, plead,
O children! whom I cherish as mine own;
I change your names, and cancel all the curse
Which shut you out from love. Oh, let your voice
Break through the spell that holds her in its chains;
Your baby-fingers touch her hardened heart,
Win back her wandering fancy, make her true,
And pure, and faithful. So a happier glow
May yet surround the sunset of my life;
And age may come to find me circled round
With loving wife, dear children, honouring friends.
Far better ending than my youth's vain dreams,
90
Which waits for him who leads the white-robed choir.”
It might not be. To depths of lower shame
She sank all heedless. In her frenzied guilt,
Leaving the one true guardian of her life,
She sought another's home. With him she dwelt,
In guilty snatches of delirious joy,
Drowning in sin all memory of the past,
Bewitched by evil, till the flame burnt out,
As burn the thorns that sparkle on the hearth,
And left her cold and shivering in the gloom.
The adulterer's love, grown weary, turned to hate,
And bitter words made way for brutal deed;
And dragging her, once fondled and caressed,
As men may drag a slave they take in war,
Before the men who gather in the gate,
He offered her for money, less for greed
Of gold or silver, than in scorn and hate,
To grieve her woman's soul with foulest shame,
The lowest price demanding that men ask
For boy half-grown, or woman past her prime,
Half money, half in kind; and none would buy.
But I was there, and, weeping blinding tears,
I took her to myself, and paid the price
(Strange contrast to the dowry of her youth
When first I wooed her); and she came again
91
The tender hopes of those departed years
And not for her the freedom and the love
I then bestowed so freely. Sterner rule
Is needed now: in silence and alone,
In shame and sorrow, wailing, fast, and prayer,
She must blot out the stains that made her life
One long pollution. I, too, must abide
The issue of that penance, suffering long,
Her friend, yet not her husband, till the work
Be done, and all the wanton soul and sense
Be chastened into pureness. And as yet
The tears come not, but sullen, angry frown,
And fear that turns to hate, rejecting love,
And misery that crushes out the hope,
Each evil passion rushing through the soul,
And making life a hell. Ah me! my God!
Why was I born to taste this depth of woe?
Why closed not darkness o'er my infant life
On that accursèd day when joyful lips,
Unknowing of the future, raised the cry,
“Rejoice, O mother! Lo! a child is born”?
And yet through all the mystery of my years
There runs a purpose which forbids that wail
Of passionate despair. I have not lived
At random, as a soul whom God forsakes;
But evermore His Spirit led me on,
92
Stirred up within me that deep love, and now
Reveals the inner secret. I have learnt,
Poor, weak, and frail, to love the fallen soul
Of one thus worthless. I have given my peace,
My honour, yea, my life for her who turns
Unthankful from me. Is there not a cause?
Hath not our God wooed Israel as His bride,
The stubborn, wayward Israel, in His love
And pity, pardoning all the sins of old?
And here, too, all is baseness. Crimes of sense,
And crimes of spirit, tainting heart and life,
The altars, and the incense, and the songs
With which she bowed to Baalim; the lust,
The rapine, and the hate that rose to heaven:
These, these have lit the fire of righteous wrath;
And He, the jealous God, will visit sins
Of fathers upon children. I have learnt,
In this sharp teaching of an inward woe,
The meaning of that jealousy. I know
The pity, and the sorrow, and the pain,
The love which waters cannot quench, the zeal
Which does not shrink from chastening. So it is,
And equal stripes must fall on equal sin.
She sits alone, that poor self-widowed one,
Bowed down to earth. No golden circlet now
Crowns her dark locks. No Tyrian purple pours
Its rich, soft folds around the marble limbs;
93
The topaz and the sapphire cease to blend
Their radiance on the anklet's dainty band,
The coronet of feet that scorned for pride
The earth they trod on. Reft of pomp and state,
Her brow deep-furrowed with a wrath suppressed,
And lips that tell of sullen, inward storm,
She bides her time; and I must leave her there
Till those dark clouds have melted into tears,
And heart of stone gives way to heart of flesh.
The time is long and weary, and I sigh
For very grief as mournful days pass on;
And yet no sorrow, no repentant prayer,
No craving for forgiveness speaks of change.
And thou, O Israel, thou must bear thy doom,
Grow old and fail, in homes that are not thine,
Where mighty rivers water lands unknown,
And Asshur's palaces, in pride of strength,
Rise high upon the banks of Hiddekel.
No glory of the past shall wait thee there,
No pomp of kings, no priests in gorgeous robes,
No victims bleeding on the altar-fires;
Nor shall the ephod set with sparkling gems,
Nor pillar speaking of the gate of heaven,
Nor Teraphim with strange mysterious gleams,
Give then their signs oracular. Long years
Thy sons shall hang their harps on Babel's trees,
And wander homeless over all the lands,
94
The door of hope is opened, and the light
Breaks in on that thick darkness. But the end
Is certain. They will turn and seek their God,
Seek David's son, the heir of David's throne,
No longer hardened in their scorn of scorn,
But mourning, weeping, seeking peace from God,
Renewing once again the primal love,
The day of those espousals when the King
Chose his young bride from out the desert world,
And claimed her as His own. Oh, boundless joy!
Oh, day long looked for! worth the price we pay,
The penalty of exile, hunger, shame,
If only it may come in all its peace,
In brightness as the morning.
So I sit,
Feeding on thoughts that circle round from grief,
To highest gladness: so I judge their faults,
Mark out their sentence, that adulterous wife,
That more adulterous people. Yet there comes,
To bring me low, the question, “What am I,
That I should sit in judgment? This my woe,
That rends the air with passionate complaint,
Bears that no witness of a guilt like theirs,
A penalty as needful?” Through my soul
There thrills the trembling shame that whelms the heart
Of woman faithless. Thou, my soul, wast loved,
95
And thou, too, hast been false. Thy will has turned
To dreams of self. Thy work beguiled thy soul
With wanton longings for the prophet's fame,
The power to move the terror or the love
Of listening thousands. Not the word of peace,
The free glad tidings from the Lord of Life
To thousand way-worn wanderers in their grief,
But battle, strife, contention, with the kings,
The priests, the prophets, who opposed thy will,—
This led thee on. The heart of all thy love
To that poor sinner was thy pride of strength,
Secret of all thy failure. Thou hast said,
“I in my might will be as God, and bring
Good out of evil, sway the tides of life,
Avenge the wrong, chastise each secret sin;”
And so thou could'st not win thy heart's desire,
Wast powerless through thy dream of fancied strength,
Wast baffled by an evil like thine own:
Thou too must sit in ashes; on thy lips
Must be the seal of silence. Thou must learn
Thy guilt in its full measure; thou must own
Thy need of cleansing. Only when thine arm
In sense of weakness reaches forth to God,
Wilt thou be strong to suffer and to do;
Only when thou shalt yield thy will to His,
Renouncing self's vain dreams, and take thy place
96
To speak His word, to bow men's hearts to Him.
Till then sit thou without the prophet's garb,
And utter thou no oracle of God;
Low on the earth, in dust and ashes bowed,
Learn from the outcast, count thyself as vile,
Taste in thine heart the bitterness of death,
Plunge thy whole life within the dark abyss,
And then thou too shalt, after many days,
Turn in thine anguish to the Eternal Lord,
And, wearied out with evil, seeking peace,
Dwell in His Goodness everlastingly.
June, 1864.
97
THE HOUSE OF THE RECHABITES.
I. JEHONADAB.
“And when Jehu was departed thence, he lighted on Jehonadab the son of
Rechab coming to meet him: and he saluted him, and said to him, Is thine
heart right, as my heart is with thy heart?”
—2 Kings x. 15.
The shadows fall: before mine eyes there floats
The thick, black darkness. Ere my voice is hushed,
I fain would see you gather round my tent,
And speak my parting counsels. Ye, my sons,
The glory of the spring-tide of my years,
Warriors of God, whom I have watched in youth
Outrun the wild goat to the topmost crag,
Plunge into Jordan when the harvest flood
O'erflows its banks, and, battling with the stream,
Rise up victorious on the further shore,
Whose faces, scarred and seamed in many a fight,
Showed noblest hearts, all ignorant of fear;
And ye, who not by bonds of natural birth,
But sworn obedience, one in life and heart,
98
As sons of Rechab; come ye, one and all,
Men, women, children, hear the words of one
Who speaks as God has taught him. Through the years
Those words shall dwell with you for weal or woe,
Blessing or cursing. On your heads the vow
Shall rest for ever. Not for you the life
Of sloth and ease within the city's gates,
Where idol-feasts are held, and incense smokes
To Baalim and Ashtaroth; where man
Loses his manhood, and the scoffers sit
Perverting judgment, selfish, soft, impure:
Not yours the task of those that sow and reap,
Or plant the olive and the vine. Ye dwell,
Free as, of old, your fathers roamed the lands,
When Joshua led their hosts, and, Canaan won,
Gave them their lot in Israel. Still ye wend
From hill to hill, with camels and with sheep,
Asses and oxen, and your tents are seen
Outspread upon the pleasant Gilead land,
Blackened, yet comely. And the Nazarite's oath
Is still upon you. Not for you the cup
That sparkles with the crimson blood of grapes:
The wine that glads the heart of man and God
Ye may not taste. The wild, entrancing thrill
That stirs the veins with pulse of warm desire,
And swells the voice of song, and bids the feet
99
Leave this to lower natures. Ye have seen
The poison at its work, have watched the soul
Lose calmness, strength, and wisdom, rising high
To sink down low, all brutish, in the abyss
Where man forgets his God. But ye, the true,
The faithful, bound, as servants of the Lord,
With heart and strength to serve Him, stand ye fast,
Nor cloud your spirits with the fleshly taint,
Nor join in revel at the idol-feasts,
Nor turn your backs in craven fear of death.
Dark were the days when first within my soul
The stirrings of a message from the Lord
Woke, half-unfelt. The house of Omri trod
Its evil path, and Ahab's alien queen,
Priestess of Baal, swore to crush our faith.
The prophets of Jehovah died their death,
Or stoned, or sawn asunder, or in caves
By tens and fifties hid themselves for fear;
And Baal's altars smoked on every height,
And Baal's black-robed priests in every town
Took tithes and offerings; and by moonlight pale,
In shadowy groves, to Ashtaroth their queen,
Fair maidens danced adoring. Then the drought
Fell on us, and the famine; and the sky
Glared on us like a molten heaven of brass;
And the earth gaped for weariness and thirst;
And parchèd lips cursed God for pain of heart.
The stirrings of a message from the Lord
Woke, half-unfelt. The house of Omri trod
Its evil path, and Ahab's alien queen,
Priestess of Baal, swore to crush our faith.
The prophets of Jehovah died their death,
Or stoned, or sawn asunder, or in caves
By tens and fifties hid themselves for fear;
And Baal's altars smoked on every height,
And Baal's black-robed priests in every town
Took tithes and offerings; and by moonlight pale,
In shadowy groves, to Ashtaroth their queen,
Fair maidens danced adoring. Then the drought
Fell on us, and the famine; and the sky
Glared on us like a molten heaven of brass;
100
And parchèd lips cursed God for pain of heart.
And then the Tishbite came. His long, black hair
Flowed round him like a mantle, and he stood
On Carmel's height, and all day long the priests
Called on their god, and cut themselves with knives,
And poured their blood, and raised their cries in vain.
But when he prayed, as sank the westering sun,
The fire descended, and the wondering crowd
No longer halted, wavering between two,
Baal or Jehovah. Quivering, pale, dismayed,
Faint with the sickness of a hope deferred,
The priests and prophets of the stranger god
Were seized and slaughtered; and the torrent's bed,
Where water long had failed, now filled with blood,
Ran crimson to the sea. And then the cloud
Rose in the west, a speck of blackness, small
As is this hand, yet spreading fast and far,
With sound of many waters, and the rush
Of darkening tempest; and the glad showers fell,
And earth revived, and all the streamlets sang,
With joyful voices, and the mightier floods
Swept on and on exulting.
Flowed round him like a mantle, and he stood
On Carmel's height, and all day long the priests
Called on their god, and cut themselves with knives,
And poured their blood, and raised their cries in vain.
But when he prayed, as sank the westering sun,
The fire descended, and the wondering crowd
No longer halted, wavering between two,
Baal or Jehovah. Quivering, pale, dismayed,
Faint with the sickness of a hope deferred,
The priests and prophets of the stranger god
Were seized and slaughtered; and the torrent's bed,
Where water long had failed, now filled with blood,
Ran crimson to the sea. And then the cloud
Rose in the west, a speck of blackness, small
As is this hand, yet spreading fast and far,
With sound of many waters, and the rush
Of darkening tempest; and the glad showers fell,
And earth revived, and all the streamlets sang,
With joyful voices, and the mightier floods
Swept on and on exulting.
Yet awhile
Deliverance came not. Still the foul disease
Remained, unhealed; and Ahab's evil ways
Cried to the Heavens for vengeance. Faint and sad,
Weary of life, as one who stands alone,
The last survivor of a fallen faith,
Elijah fled to Horeb. None may know
The mystery of that vision on the mount,
The fire, the earthquake, and the whirlwind; last,
The still small voice. And soon the vengeance fell
On Ahab and his house. We heard afar
The deed of wrong, the tyrant's fond desire,
The vineyard seized, and Naboth foully slain,
The last, great guilt that filled the o'erflowing cup;
And then it came. The chance-drawn bow smote down
The coward king who sought to 'scape disguised,
And dogs licked up his blood in Jezreel.
Of all the prophet's words none fell to earth
Fruitless and vain, and though his course was run,
And soon he left us, in the fiery car
Mounting to brighter skies of Paradise,
Himself an army, stay of all our hopes,
The chariot and the horseman of our strength,
Our father and our guide, the years fulfilled
Each slighted warning. Shame, disgrace, and death
Poured down in quick succession, and our hearts
Rejoiced to think deliverance near at hand.
But most I joy to live those hours again,
When Nimshi's son had wrought his deed of doom,
And Ahab's sons, and queenly Jezebel,
Lay low in dust. All flushed with pride and zeal,
He met us in his chariot. I was there
With you, my sons, and over all the hills
Our tents were scattered, and our myriad sheep
Came to their shearing, and our warriors tried
Made up an army. And the new-made king
Knew how to use us. Israel's king, I say,
In all the pride of conquest, sought to clasp
My hand in friendship, though of alien blood,
And half of alien creed (for Jehu still
Bowed down before the golden calves that stood
In Bethel and in Dan); and now, behold,
We rode together, I, the Kenite chief,
And he, the king. And over all the land
Went forth the summons, “Come, ye priests, that serve
At Baal's altars. Come ye, all who bow
At Baal's shrine. The king will hold a feast,
And offer up a mightier sacrifice
Than Ahab ever dreamt of.” So they came,
From East and West, the false apostate crew,
From North and South, all striving, eager, hot,
To be among the foremost. In they streamed,
In garments dyed with purple, such as come
From Tyrian looms; and soon the Temple-gates
Closed in upon the thronging, weltering crowd;
And then our moment came. I gave the sign,
And ye, your bright swords flashing in the air,
Went in to do your work. Not hand to hand,
In equal fight, not struggling hard for life,
But helpless, powerless, taken in the snare,
Ye found your victims, and with firm, fixed eye,
And hands unflinching till the wearied arm
Refused its office, slew, and slew, and slew
Your startled, trembling foes. The red sun fell
On that red stream that gurgled past the walls,
And over pallid faces threw its gleam
Of ghastly brightness. Ah, my soul leaps up
At that remembrance. Not a whit behind
That sacrifice on Carmel, which I saw,
Was this my hands had wrought. We crushed the snake
Our master bruised. Remember, O my God,
That slaughter of Thy foes. A whisper runs
(I know it) that some dreamer in his cell,
Who counts himself a prophet, has condemned
That deed of vengeance. Let him dream his dreams
Of pitying love, and talk of curses dark
That rest upon that day of Jezreel,
And claim fulfilment. New and strange to me
Such thoughts as these. My soul was early trained
To smite and slay the haters of my God,
To use or tongue, or hand, or sword, or stone,
As each was fittest. Who will blame my deed,
And spare Elijah's? And if aught of wrong
Have mixed itself with either, Thou, O God,
Wilt pardon it as over-eager zeal.
The willing slave who does his lord's behest,
O'erstepping, here or there, the bounds of right,
In very strength of love which hates the foes
His Lord condemns, may claim the guerdon high
Of faithful service. Thou, my King, my God,
Wilt own Thy servant, and my name shall live
As lives the name of Jehu, through the years,
Linked with that day of Jezreel. Ye, my sons,
Shall make that name immortal. Still your flocks
Shall feed on Gilead's hills, and in your tents
Ye and your sons shall dwell, and shall not taste
The purpling draught that maddens all the sense,
And numbs the soul; but still your food shall be
The curdled goat's milk, and the golden store
That drops, all fragrant, from the flinty rock,
And water clear and cool shall quench your thirst;
And so your days shall lengthen in the land,
As mine have lengthened. Now I go my way
I know not whither, but my sleep is sweet,
Sweet as the night to him who all day long
Has chased the hart upon the mountain height;
And I pass on to where my fathers dwell,
Each in his rock-hewn couch; and I shall see
The prophets I have known, and they, I think,
Will give me welcome, and a change will come
O'er sense and spirit making all things clear:
And there, it may be, I shall see once more
The great Elijah, whom the fiery car
Bore from us, and shall greet him, as of old,
“My father, O my father, we thy sons,
Sons of the chariot of our Israel's strength,
Still hold thy name in honour, do thy deeds,
And live thy life.” And then from out the clouds
His voice may answer, even as Jehu's did,
“Give me thine hand.” And I, who rode of yore
In Jehu's chariot, mounting higher yet
To greater glory, side by side may stand
(The angels round me, and the steeds of fire
Through golden clouds advancing to the Throne)
With him, the mightiest seer, till I, too, see
The King in all His beauty, and my voice
Joins in the shout of all the sons of God.
Deliverance came not. Still the foul disease
Remained, unhealed; and Ahab's evil ways
101
Weary of life, as one who stands alone,
The last survivor of a fallen faith,
Elijah fled to Horeb. None may know
The mystery of that vision on the mount,
The fire, the earthquake, and the whirlwind; last,
The still small voice. And soon the vengeance fell
On Ahab and his house. We heard afar
The deed of wrong, the tyrant's fond desire,
The vineyard seized, and Naboth foully slain,
The last, great guilt that filled the o'erflowing cup;
And then it came. The chance-drawn bow smote down
The coward king who sought to 'scape disguised,
And dogs licked up his blood in Jezreel.
Of all the prophet's words none fell to earth
Fruitless and vain, and though his course was run,
And soon he left us, in the fiery car
Mounting to brighter skies of Paradise,
Himself an army, stay of all our hopes,
The chariot and the horseman of our strength,
Our father and our guide, the years fulfilled
Each slighted warning. Shame, disgrace, and death
Poured down in quick succession, and our hearts
Rejoiced to think deliverance near at hand.
But most I joy to live those hours again,
When Nimshi's son had wrought his deed of doom,
102
Lay low in dust. All flushed with pride and zeal,
He met us in his chariot. I was there
With you, my sons, and over all the hills
Our tents were scattered, and our myriad sheep
Came to their shearing, and our warriors tried
Made up an army. And the new-made king
Knew how to use us. Israel's king, I say,
In all the pride of conquest, sought to clasp
My hand in friendship, though of alien blood,
And half of alien creed (for Jehu still
Bowed down before the golden calves that stood
In Bethel and in Dan); and now, behold,
We rode together, I, the Kenite chief,
And he, the king. And over all the land
Went forth the summons, “Come, ye priests, that serve
At Baal's altars. Come ye, all who bow
At Baal's shrine. The king will hold a feast,
And offer up a mightier sacrifice
Than Ahab ever dreamt of.” So they came,
From East and West, the false apostate crew,
From North and South, all striving, eager, hot,
To be among the foremost. In they streamed,
In garments dyed with purple, such as come
From Tyrian looms; and soon the Temple-gates
Closed in upon the thronging, weltering crowd;
And then our moment came. I gave the sign,
103
Went in to do your work. Not hand to hand,
In equal fight, not struggling hard for life,
But helpless, powerless, taken in the snare,
Ye found your victims, and with firm, fixed eye,
And hands unflinching till the wearied arm
Refused its office, slew, and slew, and slew
Your startled, trembling foes. The red sun fell
On that red stream that gurgled past the walls,
And over pallid faces threw its gleam
Of ghastly brightness. Ah, my soul leaps up
At that remembrance. Not a whit behind
That sacrifice on Carmel, which I saw,
Was this my hands had wrought. We crushed the snake
Our master bruised. Remember, O my God,
That slaughter of Thy foes. A whisper runs
(I know it) that some dreamer in his cell,
Who counts himself a prophet, has condemned
That deed of vengeance. Let him dream his dreams
Of pitying love, and talk of curses dark
That rest upon that day of Jezreel,
And claim fulfilment. New and strange to me
Such thoughts as these. My soul was early trained
To smite and slay the haters of my God,
To use or tongue, or hand, or sword, or stone,
As each was fittest. Who will blame my deed,
104
Have mixed itself with either, Thou, O God,
Wilt pardon it as over-eager zeal.
The willing slave who does his lord's behest,
O'erstepping, here or there, the bounds of right,
In very strength of love which hates the foes
His Lord condemns, may claim the guerdon high
Of faithful service. Thou, my King, my God,
Wilt own Thy servant, and my name shall live
As lives the name of Jehu, through the years,
Linked with that day of Jezreel. Ye, my sons,
Shall make that name immortal. Still your flocks
Shall feed on Gilead's hills, and in your tents
Ye and your sons shall dwell, and shall not taste
The purpling draught that maddens all the sense,
And numbs the soul; but still your food shall be
The curdled goat's milk, and the golden store
That drops, all fragrant, from the flinty rock,
And water clear and cool shall quench your thirst;
And so your days shall lengthen in the land,
As mine have lengthened. Now I go my way
I know not whither, but my sleep is sweet,
Sweet as the night to him who all day long
Has chased the hart upon the mountain height;
And I pass on to where my fathers dwell,
Each in his rock-hewn couch; and I shall see
The prophets I have known, and they, I think,
Will give me welcome, and a change will come
105
And there, it may be, I shall see once more
The great Elijah, whom the fiery car
Bore from us, and shall greet him, as of old,
“My father, O my father, we thy sons,
Sons of the chariot of our Israel's strength,
Still hold thy name in honour, do thy deeds,
And live thy life.” And then from out the clouds
His voice may answer, even as Jehu's did,
“Give me thine hand.” And I, who rode of yore
In Jehu's chariot, mounting higher yet
To greater glory, side by side may stand
(The angels round me, and the steeds of fire
Through golden clouds advancing to the Throne)
With him, the mightiest seer, till I, too, see
The King in all His beauty, and my voice
Joins in the shout of all the sons of God.
September, 1864.
106
II. JAAZANIAH.
“Then I took Jaazaniah the son of Jeremiah, the son of Habaziniah, and
his brethren, and all his sons, and the whole house of the Rechabites, and I
brought them into the house of the Lord.”
—Jerem. xxxv. 3.
It is not that our hearts have waxen faint,
Or wills grown false. We blush not to confess
Our father's name, and still the vows we keep
By which he bound us. But the times were hard;
The great King's armies ravaged all the land,
Bitter and hasty, mad with lust and rage,
And all our flocks and herds they tore away,
Nor spared or infant smiling at the breast,
Or hoary-headed age. And so we dwell
Within the city's walls, who, long years past,
Ne'er slept beneath a roof, but still in tents
Lived as our fathers lived. We loathe the change:
The bright, keen air that swept the uplands wild,
Sweet with the fragrance of the fields of God,
We breathe no more; but, stifling, dense, and thick,
Charged with the taint of pestilence and death,
Foul as the draught-house which, of olden time,
Reared its proud height exulting, as a shrine
Where Baal sat enthroned, which he, our sire,
The son of Rechab, stript of all its pride,
The city's vapours choke us. And our garb,
Our speech, our customs, all are put to shame;
The revellers and the drunkards make their songs
Because we feast not with them, and they tempt
Our purer youth to stain their souls with sin;
And, in the twilight, where the cross-ways meet,
The harlot-stranger greets them with her wiles,
And lures them to the chambers of the dead;
And so the cry goes up, as once it went
From Admah and Zeboim, and the cup
Fills evermore, till soon the wrath of God
Shall overflow in fury. Base and foul
This life of cities: now we see and know
The wisdom of the oath that bade us shun
And hate it evermore.
Or wills grown false. We blush not to confess
Our father's name, and still the vows we keep
By which he bound us. But the times were hard;
The great King's armies ravaged all the land,
Bitter and hasty, mad with lust and rage,
And all our flocks and herds they tore away,
Nor spared or infant smiling at the breast,
Or hoary-headed age. And so we dwell
Within the city's walls, who, long years past,
Ne'er slept beneath a roof, but still in tents
Lived as our fathers lived. We loathe the change:
The bright, keen air that swept the uplands wild,
Sweet with the fragrance of the fields of God,
We breathe no more; but, stifling, dense, and thick,
Charged with the taint of pestilence and death,
107
Reared its proud height exulting, as a shrine
Where Baal sat enthroned, which he, our sire,
The son of Rechab, stript of all its pride,
The city's vapours choke us. And our garb,
Our speech, our customs, all are put to shame;
The revellers and the drunkards make their songs
Because we feast not with them, and they tempt
Our purer youth to stain their souls with sin;
And, in the twilight, where the cross-ways meet,
The harlot-stranger greets them with her wiles,
And lures them to the chambers of the dead;
And so the cry goes up, as once it went
From Admah and Zeboim, and the cup
Fills evermore, till soon the wrath of God
Shall overflow in fury. Base and foul
This life of cities: now we see and know
The wisdom of the oath that bade us shun
And hate it evermore.
And yet we found
E'en there a remnant, faithful friends and true,
Servants of God, and all our hearts leapt up,
When through the Temple's gates, and stately courts,
We passed adoring. Not till then our eyes
Had looked on that full splendour, nor our ears
Heard the clear trumpets which the priests of God
Blow loud and long, or that great shout of praise,
When Hallelujah from the white-robed choir
Rises on high, and thousand voices chant,
Re-echoing Hallelujah, wave on wave,
The sound of many waters. All our days
Till now, when Sabbaths bade us rest from toil,
Or new-moon feast filled every soul with joy,
We gathered here or there, in tent or grove,
Where'er a prophet met us; and we prayed,
And he declared his message, and we heard,
And so we went our way. But now we tread
The courts of God, which He of old chose out
To set His Name there; and the cedarn roof,
Fretted and bossed with gold of Ophir, carved
With all the workman's cunning, wins our gaze.
Here, where great David's greater son stood up,
And prayed his prayer; where, bright and lustrous, shone
The glory of the Presence, sapphire gleams
And amber brightness, blent with orient rays
Of amethyst and emerald; here to kneel,
And watch the thousand pilgrims as they pass,
And see the sheep and oxen, flocks and herds,
Driven to the altars,—this is joy, indeed;
And fain our steps would tread the hallowed way,
And fain our voice would swell the surging praise,
And rather would we stay to keep the doors,
And sweep the pavement of the House of God,
Than dwell where all the proud ones in their tents
Exult in conquest.
E'en there a remnant, faithful friends and true,
Servants of God, and all our hearts leapt up,
When through the Temple's gates, and stately courts,
We passed adoring. Not till then our eyes
Had looked on that full splendour, nor our ears
Heard the clear trumpets which the priests of God
Blow loud and long, or that great shout of praise,
When Hallelujah from the white-robed choir
108
Re-echoing Hallelujah, wave on wave,
The sound of many waters. All our days
Till now, when Sabbaths bade us rest from toil,
Or new-moon feast filled every soul with joy,
We gathered here or there, in tent or grove,
Where'er a prophet met us; and we prayed,
And he declared his message, and we heard,
And so we went our way. But now we tread
The courts of God, which He of old chose out
To set His Name there; and the cedarn roof,
Fretted and bossed with gold of Ophir, carved
With all the workman's cunning, wins our gaze.
Here, where great David's greater son stood up,
And prayed his prayer; where, bright and lustrous, shone
The glory of the Presence, sapphire gleams
And amber brightness, blent with orient rays
Of amethyst and emerald; here to kneel,
And watch the thousand pilgrims as they pass,
And see the sheep and oxen, flocks and herds,
Driven to the altars,—this is joy, indeed;
And fain our steps would tread the hallowed way,
And fain our voice would swell the surging praise,
And rather would we stay to keep the doors,
And sweep the pavement of the House of God,
Than dwell where all the proud ones in their tents
Exult in conquest.
109
Not in vain that wish:
They welcomed us, the prophets and the priests,
As friends and brothers, and with open hearts
Gave all we needed. Chief among them all,
Stood forth the pale, sad seer of Anathoth,
The man of many woes, whose gleaming eyes
Told of a fire still burning, and whose lips
Now slow and feeble, now of mightiest speech,
Make known the thoughts of God. He owned in us
A kindred life, for he, too, dwelt apart,
An exile from his own, and would not tread
The house of feasting; and at him they scoffed
Who scoffed at us, and evermore they cried,
“Lo! the mad prophet: hear him rave again.”
They welcomed us, the prophets and the priests,
As friends and brothers, and with open hearts
Gave all we needed. Chief among them all,
Stood forth the pale, sad seer of Anathoth,
The man of many woes, whose gleaming eyes
Told of a fire still burning, and whose lips
Now slow and feeble, now of mightiest speech,
Make known the thoughts of God. He owned in us
A kindred life, for he, too, dwelt apart,
An exile from his own, and would not tread
The house of feasting; and at him they scoffed
Who scoffed at us, and evermore they cried,
“Lo! the mad prophet: hear him rave again.”
One morn he came to us. The prophet's hour
Was on him; not with common speech, or mien
Of wonted calmness, but in heat of soul,
With clear, fixed eye, and voice that whispered low,
As one on whom the hand of God weighs hard,
He spake his will, and bade me follow him
With all my father's house. Through gate and court
He led the way to where the eastern tower
Looks down on Kidron. There the chamber stands
Where Hanan's followers gather up the words
Their Master speaks, and there he bade us stay;
And then from out the treasure of the House
He brought the golden goblets chased of old
By Hiram's workmen (such as 'scaped the spoil
When Shishak plundered), crusted thick with gems,
Embossed and graven. Wine he brought, the best
That Eshcol's vineyards boast of, sweet and bright,
And, pouring, bade us drink. Yes, he, the seer,
The prophet of the Lord, stood forth to tempt,
As Satan tempts. To break the vows of God,
To do dishonour to our father's name,
To taste the cup those dying lips had cursed;—
To this he called us. Wondering eyes we turned,
All startled at the suddenness of change,
But yield we might not. No, nor prophet's voice,
Nor angel's message floating through the air,
Nor lengthened skill and subtlety of speech
Might bend us from our purpose. So we told
Our simple tale. “The oath of God was strong,
Stronger than all things else. Our souls were bound
To keep our father's hest. Stern need alone
Had driven us from our tents, but all the rest
We still obeyed.” “Oh, ask us not to taste,
Thou prophet of the Lord, lest we too fall
Beneath the curse.”
Was on him; not with common speech, or mien
Of wonted calmness, but in heat of soul,
With clear, fixed eye, and voice that whispered low,
As one on whom the hand of God weighs hard,
He spake his will, and bade me follow him
With all my father's house. Through gate and court
He led the way to where the eastern tower
Looks down on Kidron. There the chamber stands
Where Hanan's followers gather up the words
Their Master speaks, and there he bade us stay;
110
He brought the golden goblets chased of old
By Hiram's workmen (such as 'scaped the spoil
When Shishak plundered), crusted thick with gems,
Embossed and graven. Wine he brought, the best
That Eshcol's vineyards boast of, sweet and bright,
And, pouring, bade us drink. Yes, he, the seer,
The prophet of the Lord, stood forth to tempt,
As Satan tempts. To break the vows of God,
To do dishonour to our father's name,
To taste the cup those dying lips had cursed;—
To this he called us. Wondering eyes we turned,
All startled at the suddenness of change,
But yield we might not. No, nor prophet's voice,
Nor angel's message floating through the air,
Nor lengthened skill and subtlety of speech
Might bend us from our purpose. So we told
Our simple tale. “The oath of God was strong,
Stronger than all things else. Our souls were bound
To keep our father's hest. Stern need alone
Had driven us from our tents, but all the rest
We still obeyed.” “Oh, ask us not to taste,
Thou prophet of the Lord, lest we too fall
Beneath the curse.”
And then the mystery cleared;
Not luring us to sin, but trusting well
Our strong obedience, he would find in us
A pattern unto Israel. We had kept
Our father's word, but Judah had been false,
And Israel frail. In vain the Lord had sent
His prophets, rising early; and in vain
Had pleaded with His children. Therefore came
On us the blessing, and on them the doom:
For them a city captured, homes destroyed,
A life of exile; and for us the praise
Which God, not man, awards to faithful souls,
A name to live through all the age to come;
Yea, more than all, beyond our hope or dream,
The words went forth that met our heart's desire;—
“The son of Rechab shall not want a man
To stand before my face for evermore.”
As stand the sons of Aaron when, in robes
Of linen white and clean, they tread the courts,
Or wave the incense,—as the Levites stand,
Choir facing choir, and chant their hymns at night,
Through the still darkness breathing praise to God,
To cheer the watchman on his lonely round,
The soldier on his turret; so shall we
Dwell, night and day, within the holy house
Which God has called his own: our lips shall bring
Their daily offering, and our hands shall sweep
The strings of harp or psaltery. Pure and cleansed,
The chosen band of Nazarites shall own
Our tried endurance. In the months to come,
Or few, or many, we shall find our home,
As finds the swallow, in the courts of God.
Not luring us to sin, but trusting well
Our strong obedience, he would find in us
111
Our father's word, but Judah had been false,
And Israel frail. In vain the Lord had sent
His prophets, rising early; and in vain
Had pleaded with His children. Therefore came
On us the blessing, and on them the doom:
For them a city captured, homes destroyed,
A life of exile; and for us the praise
Which God, not man, awards to faithful souls,
A name to live through all the age to come;
Yea, more than all, beyond our hope or dream,
The words went forth that met our heart's desire;—
“The son of Rechab shall not want a man
To stand before my face for evermore.”
As stand the sons of Aaron when, in robes
Of linen white and clean, they tread the courts,
Or wave the incense,—as the Levites stand,
Choir facing choir, and chant their hymns at night,
Through the still darkness breathing praise to God,
To cheer the watchman on his lonely round,
The soldier on his turret; so shall we
Dwell, night and day, within the holy house
Which God has called his own: our lips shall bring
Their daily offering, and our hands shall sweep
The strings of harp or psaltery. Pure and cleansed,
The chosen band of Nazarites shall own
Our tried endurance. In the months to come,
112
As finds the swallow, in the courts of God.
And if the days are dark, and doom of woe
Hangs o'er us; if the dread Chaldæan scourge
Shall sweep the land and leave it desolate;
If cedar beams and carvèd roof shall burn,
And columns lie, all shattered, in the dust;
And golden vessels serve for idol-feasts,
And all the music of the choirs be hushed,
And groans and curses rend the startled air;—
If, exiles wandering on Euphrates' banks,
We hang our harps upon the pale, grey trees,
Whose weeping branches plash the wide, waste flood,
And, when they bid us, in their mirth and pride,
Sing at their feasts the chief of Zion's songs,
Make answer, “How in this strange land and drear
Can hallowed songs, the hymns of God, be ours?”
And then in speech they know not, breathe our soul,
Cursing, not blessing:—if all this shall come
On us and on our children, still our hearts
Shall live in hope. The word is sure and fixed
As are the everlasting hills of God,
And still the sons of Rechab shall not fail
To stand before the Lord; and still their feet
Shall tread His courts, their voices speak His praise.
And thou, O Prophet, Seer of Anathoth,
Shalt see, in vision, all thy word fulfilled;
And the old order, waxing dim, shall pass
Away before the new, and words of God
Written on fleshly tablets of the heart,
Shall win from all obedience, trust, and love.
So all thy woes shall end, thy restless grief
Shall rest at last, and near the throne of God
Thou still shalt stand, and for thy people pray,
Thy grey hairs crowned with glory; while, on earth,
The sons of Rechab treasure up thy words,
And live, expectant of the mightier time,
When He, the Lord our Righteousness, shall come,
And call His people from the East and West
To dwell for ever in the Eternal Light,
At rest within the Paradise of God.
Hangs o'er us; if the dread Chaldæan scourge
Shall sweep the land and leave it desolate;
If cedar beams and carvèd roof shall burn,
And columns lie, all shattered, in the dust;
And golden vessels serve for idol-feasts,
And all the music of the choirs be hushed,
And groans and curses rend the startled air;—
If, exiles wandering on Euphrates' banks,
We hang our harps upon the pale, grey trees,
Whose weeping branches plash the wide, waste flood,
And, when they bid us, in their mirth and pride,
Sing at their feasts the chief of Zion's songs,
Make answer, “How in this strange land and drear
Can hallowed songs, the hymns of God, be ours?”
And then in speech they know not, breathe our soul,
Cursing, not blessing:—if all this shall come
On us and on our children, still our hearts
Shall live in hope. The word is sure and fixed
As are the everlasting hills of God,
And still the sons of Rechab shall not fail
To stand before the Lord; and still their feet
Shall tread His courts, their voices speak His praise.
113
Shalt see, in vision, all thy word fulfilled;
And the old order, waxing dim, shall pass
Away before the new, and words of God
Written on fleshly tablets of the heart,
Shall win from all obedience, trust, and love.
So all thy woes shall end, thy restless grief
Shall rest at last, and near the throne of God
Thou still shalt stand, and for thy people pray,
Thy grey hairs crowned with glory; while, on earth,
The sons of Rechab treasure up thy words,
And live, expectant of the mightier time,
When He, the Lord our Righteousness, shall come,
And call His people from the East and West
To dwell for ever in the Eternal Light,
At rest within the Paradise of God.
September, 1864.
114
III. JAMES THE JUST.
“But whilst they were thus stoning him, one of the priests of the sons of
Rechab the sons of Rechabim, who are mentioned by the prophet Jeremiah,
cried, ‘Stop, what do ye, the Just One prays for you.’”
—Hegesippus, in Euseb. Hist. Ecc. ii. 23.
You ask me, friend, the story of my life,
How came it that for years I held my peace,
Half-doubting, half-believing, went my way,
And did my work, as if the Nazarene
Had never taught, or died, or risen again;
Whilst thou, e'er yet the stir and rush were o'er
Of that great Pentecost, as fully His,
Did'st join the Galileans. So thy path
Was taken, and it parted us. For thee,
No longer, service in the Temple's courts,
Slaying oxen, burning incense, but the work
To spread thy Lord's good tidings o'er the world
To Jew or Gentile, visiting the sick,
Clothing the naked, gauging earth's abyss
Of hopeless sorrow, where in dungeons foul
Men curse their God, or fret their loathsome lives
In galleys or in mines, and still in each
Uplifting high the Cross on which thy self
Was crucified with Christ. And now we meet,
The long years ended like a tale that's told,
And never more shall clouds of incense float
To gilded rafters, never more shall eye
Of wondering traveller glance from height to height,
And count those towers of Zion. Low in dust
They lie, those goodly columns, and the fire
Has charred the sculptured cedar, and the song
Is turned to wailing. Yes, we meet again;
And I, the doubter, faltering, half-convinced,
Am one with thee in heart, and faith, and life,
Call Christ my Lord, and seek to make Him mine.
“How was it?” I will tell thee. Long ago
(Thou mind'st the time), when yet the gathering down
Grew on my youthful cheek, and first I took
My place among the Levites in their choir,
There came a rumour that the hour had come,
Long hoped-for, long deferred, when God should raise
A prophet unto Israel. Stiff and cold,
And poor and dead the teaching of our scribes,
Hillel and Shammai, vexing all our souls
With grievous burdens, telling o'er again
Their thrice-told tales. And all our hearts leapt up
At this good news. The Spirit had not failed,
The Lord's arm was not shortened. Once again
The Word had come, and he, the Baptist, stood
As stood of old, Elijah. We were sent,
Levites and priests, to test the preacher's claim,
And search his teaching. Others came away,
Hating or scorning, “He is mad,” they said,
“A demon holds him. Here is one of us,
A priest as we are, and he lives a life
That shames us, turns away from all his friends,
From feasts, and song, and garments soft and rich,
The honours of the priesthood and the scribes,
And makes his dwelling in the wilderness,
And lives on locusts like the wandering sons
Of Ishmael, and will rob the wild bee's store,
And drink the stream that gushes from the rock.”
How came it that for years I held my peace,
Half-doubting, half-believing, went my way,
And did my work, as if the Nazarene
Had never taught, or died, or risen again;
Whilst thou, e'er yet the stir and rush were o'er
Of that great Pentecost, as fully His,
Did'st join the Galileans. So thy path
Was taken, and it parted us. For thee,
No longer, service in the Temple's courts,
Slaying oxen, burning incense, but the work
To spread thy Lord's good tidings o'er the world
To Jew or Gentile, visiting the sick,
Clothing the naked, gauging earth's abyss
Of hopeless sorrow, where in dungeons foul
Men curse their God, or fret their loathsome lives
In galleys or in mines, and still in each
115
Was crucified with Christ. And now we meet,
The long years ended like a tale that's told,
And never more shall clouds of incense float
To gilded rafters, never more shall eye
Of wondering traveller glance from height to height,
And count those towers of Zion. Low in dust
They lie, those goodly columns, and the fire
Has charred the sculptured cedar, and the song
Is turned to wailing. Yes, we meet again;
And I, the doubter, faltering, half-convinced,
Am one with thee in heart, and faith, and life,
Call Christ my Lord, and seek to make Him mine.
“How was it?” I will tell thee. Long ago
(Thou mind'st the time), when yet the gathering down
Grew on my youthful cheek, and first I took
My place among the Levites in their choir,
There came a rumour that the hour had come,
Long hoped-for, long deferred, when God should raise
A prophet unto Israel. Stiff and cold,
And poor and dead the teaching of our scribes,
Hillel and Shammai, vexing all our souls
With grievous burdens, telling o'er again
Their thrice-told tales. And all our hearts leapt up
At this good news. The Spirit had not failed,
The Lord's arm was not shortened. Once again
The Word had come, and he, the Baptist, stood
116
Levites and priests, to test the preacher's claim,
And search his teaching. Others came away,
Hating or scorning, “He is mad,” they said,
“A demon holds him. Here is one of us,
A priest as we are, and he lives a life
That shames us, turns away from all his friends,
From feasts, and song, and garments soft and rich,
The honours of the priesthood and the scribes,
And makes his dwelling in the wilderness,
And lives on locusts like the wandering sons
Of Ishmael, and will rob the wild bee's store,
And drink the stream that gushes from the rock.”
So they in scorn and wonder, but my soul
Went forth to him, admiring. Here I found
A life which bore on every lineament
The stamp of that old greatness which our sire,
The son of Rechab, bade us strive to keep,
Age after age. Elijah walked again
This earth of ours: and half I could have deemed
The Christ had come in him, but prophets old
Forbade the thought, and told of David's seed
And David's city, and himself confessed,
“I am not he, the Anointed, whom ye seek,”
And told us of another yet to come
Whom then we knew not.
Went forth to him, admiring. Here I found
A life which bore on every lineament
The stamp of that old greatness which our sire,
The son of Rechab, bade us strive to keep,
Age after age. Elijah walked again
This earth of ours: and half I could have deemed
The Christ had come in him, but prophets old
Forbade the thought, and told of David's seed
And David's city, and himself confessed,
“I am not he, the Anointed, whom ye seek,”
And told us of another yet to come
Whom then we knew not.
Soon we knew too well:
The people's rumours took another turn,
Another prophet rose, and mighty deeds,
Wrought by His hands, proclaimed Him more than John;
And mighty words were spoken, and there ran,
From peasants by the fair Tiberias' lake,
Yea, among priests and scribes who feared to speak,
The whisper, “This is Christ.” My soul was stirred
To question further: and I saw the man,
Found much to love, admire, do homage to,
And but for one thing perfect. But the flaw
Seemed fatal. He, the Galilean prophet, came
Eating and drinking, as the sons of men
Eat flesh, drink wine. He mingled with the feasts,
Where men make merry: yea, He gave the wine,
Put forth His power to give it, copious store
To last a twelvemonth. Could I trust in one
Who stooped to this? Or could I faithless prove
To all my fathers, cast aside their life
As vain self-torture, profitless, and poor,
The bondage of a time of ignorance,
Now gone for ever? So I held my peace,
Half-pitying, half-admiring, waiting on
To see the issue. Then they worked their will,
Annas and Caiaphas, and the slave-like crew
That look to Cæsar; and the prophet hung,
All stript and bleeding, on the accursèd cross
And then, we heard, He rose. The rumour ran
Through Tyropœon up the Temple steps,
Passed on from priest to priest, “The man ye slew
Is risen from the dead.” It might be so;
They spoke it bravely, those, the faltering friends
Who once forsook Him. Now they did not doubt
Were not faint-hearted, stood before the Scribes,
The Priests, the Elders, constant in their tale;
And thou, friend, did'st believe them; but for me
The old doubt was not cleared. They also drank
The wine we may not taste. From hand to hand
They passed the cup, memorial of their Lord,
Bond of their union. None might join their sect
Except he drank it. But I might not drink,
And therefore could not join: and still I said,
As once Gamaliel spoke in full debate,
“God will make clear His purpose; I, at least,
Can wait in silence.”
The people's rumours took another turn,
117
Wrought by His hands, proclaimed Him more than John;
And mighty words were spoken, and there ran,
From peasants by the fair Tiberias' lake,
Yea, among priests and scribes who feared to speak,
The whisper, “This is Christ.” My soul was stirred
To question further: and I saw the man,
Found much to love, admire, do homage to,
And but for one thing perfect. But the flaw
Seemed fatal. He, the Galilean prophet, came
Eating and drinking, as the sons of men
Eat flesh, drink wine. He mingled with the feasts,
Where men make merry: yea, He gave the wine,
Put forth His power to give it, copious store
To last a twelvemonth. Could I trust in one
Who stooped to this? Or could I faithless prove
To all my fathers, cast aside their life
As vain self-torture, profitless, and poor,
The bondage of a time of ignorance,
Now gone for ever? So I held my peace,
Half-pitying, half-admiring, waiting on
To see the issue. Then they worked their will,
Annas and Caiaphas, and the slave-like crew
That look to Cæsar; and the prophet hung,
All stript and bleeding, on the accursèd cross
And then, we heard, He rose. The rumour ran
Through Tyropœon up the Temple steps,
118
Is risen from the dead.” It might be so;
They spoke it bravely, those, the faltering friends
Who once forsook Him. Now they did not doubt
Were not faint-hearted, stood before the Scribes,
The Priests, the Elders, constant in their tale;
And thou, friend, did'st believe them; but for me
The old doubt was not cleared. They also drank
The wine we may not taste. From hand to hand
They passed the cup, memorial of their Lord,
Bond of their union. None might join their sect
Except he drank it. But I might not drink,
And therefore could not join: and still I said,
As once Gamaliel spoke in full debate,
“God will make clear His purpose; I, at least,
Can wait in silence.”
So the years passed on:
Ere long I marked each day within our courts,
A Nazarite form, in linen pure and white,
As each set service summoned men to prayer,
Still at the third hour, and the sixth, and ninth,
As one to whom the Temple was a home;
Pale, calm, and worn with fasting, there he stood,
And never costly oil bedewed his brow,
And never wine-cup touched the saintly lips,
Save, it might be, one drop, the merest sign,
The token of his brotherhood in Christ.
Silent he was, and gentle, never word
Of anger 'scaped him. Here was one, indeed,
Our father Jonadab would own as his,
One whom I might admire, and seek to make
His heart as my heart. And this man, they said,
Was Jacôb, brother of the Crucified,
Once doubting as we doubted, now convinced
By what he saw, and owning now no more
The fleshly kindred, seeing on the Throne
His brother, all men's brother. And the priests
Gave him free entry, would not turn him back,
Threw open all the gates. They knew the man
And bowed before his spotlessness of life,
And thought the risk less great to let him pass,
Seeing how gentle, worn, subdued he stood,
Than cause an uproar. But at last their wrath
Was kindled: blinded in their rage, they seized
Their victim, and, mistaking all his life,
Unknowing all the steadfastness of soul
That slumbered, waiting for its hour to come,
They urged confession. “Speak, thou Just One, speak;
Thou knew'st the Nazarene, whose followers speak
Blaspheming words against our Holy Place,
As against Moses. Thou hast never joined
In aught our law forbids. Thy lips are free
From all pollution. Zealous for the law,
We honour thee as one more zealous still,
True to the death. Well then, be bold at last,
To disavow the leader, as in act
Thou joinest not the followers. Speak one word,
The word which parts thee from the Name we hate,
And then thou shalt be ours for evermore;
And much we will concede thee, highest place,
And priestly honours, yea, and priestly robes.”
Ere long I marked each day within our courts,
A Nazarite form, in linen pure and white,
As each set service summoned men to prayer,
Still at the third hour, and the sixth, and ninth,
As one to whom the Temple was a home;
Pale, calm, and worn with fasting, there he stood,
And never costly oil bedewed his brow,
And never wine-cup touched the saintly lips,
Save, it might be, one drop, the merest sign,
The token of his brotherhood in Christ.
Silent he was, and gentle, never word
119
Our father Jonadab would own as his,
One whom I might admire, and seek to make
His heart as my heart. And this man, they said,
Was Jacôb, brother of the Crucified,
Once doubting as we doubted, now convinced
By what he saw, and owning now no more
The fleshly kindred, seeing on the Throne
His brother, all men's brother. And the priests
Gave him free entry, would not turn him back,
Threw open all the gates. They knew the man
And bowed before his spotlessness of life,
And thought the risk less great to let him pass,
Seeing how gentle, worn, subdued he stood,
Than cause an uproar. But at last their wrath
Was kindled: blinded in their rage, they seized
Their victim, and, mistaking all his life,
Unknowing all the steadfastness of soul
That slumbered, waiting for its hour to come,
They urged confession. “Speak, thou Just One, speak;
Thou knew'st the Nazarene, whose followers speak
Blaspheming words against our Holy Place,
As against Moses. Thou hast never joined
In aught our law forbids. Thy lips are free
From all pollution. Zealous for the law,
We honour thee as one more zealous still,
True to the death. Well then, be bold at last,
120
Thou joinest not the followers. Speak one word,
The word which parts thee from the Name we hate,
And then thou shalt be ours for evermore;
And much we will concede thee, highest place,
And priestly honours, yea, and priestly robes.”
And so they led him where the Temple's tower
Looks down o'er Kidron, and from either court
They gazed, expectant: and, at last, he spake:
“Ye slayers of the Just One, I have prayed,
As prayed my Master, that this hour might pass,
And leave you guiltless, prayed that ye might turn,
Believe, and live; but, lo! ye will not hear.
Your blood be on your head; my soul is free:
I bear my witness. Know ye, all who hear,
How from my heart I worship Him ye slew,
No longer as my brother, but my Lord,
Yea, as my King, my God. The stainless life
I knew long since, the mighty deeds of love;
Yet still I wavered. But, at last, there came
The victory over doubt. These eyes have seen
Risen from the dead the brother whom I knew;
And now I know Him, mighty to redeem,
As wise to teach. I hear His footstep's fall
Through all the world's wild clamour. At the door
He stands and knocks, and pleads, and calls in vain,
And soon will come as Judge. The cry goes up
To Heaven, and all the martyr-souls, that wait
Beneath the altar, shout, nor shout in vain,
‘How long, O Lord, how long!’ And then the End:
This Temple where I worship day and night,
Shall stream with blood of men, and desolate
With that abomination dark and dread,
Accursed of God, and trampled on by men,
Shall sink in flames. And then the hour shall come,
When shadows, types, and symbols falling off,
That sheathed the truth and hid it, all shall know
The mystery of the Kingdom. Greek and Jew,
The seed of Japhet, and the sons of Shem,
And Ham's swarth brood shall offer up their prayer,
And all alike be heard. The middle wall
Is broken down, and God's great love expands
Beyond the utmost sea.”
Looks down o'er Kidron, and from either court
They gazed, expectant: and, at last, he spake:
“Ye slayers of the Just One, I have prayed,
As prayed my Master, that this hour might pass,
And leave you guiltless, prayed that ye might turn,
Believe, and live; but, lo! ye will not hear.
Your blood be on your head; my soul is free:
I bear my witness. Know ye, all who hear,
How from my heart I worship Him ye slew,
No longer as my brother, but my Lord,
Yea, as my King, my God. The stainless life
I knew long since, the mighty deeds of love;
Yet still I wavered. But, at last, there came
The victory over doubt. These eyes have seen
Risen from the dead the brother whom I knew;
And now I know Him, mighty to redeem,
As wise to teach. I hear His footstep's fall
Through all the world's wild clamour. At the door
He stands and knocks, and pleads, and calls in vain,
And soon will come as Judge. The cry goes up
To Heaven, and all the martyr-souls, that wait
121
‘How long, O Lord, how long!’ And then the End:
This Temple where I worship day and night,
Shall stream with blood of men, and desolate
With that abomination dark and dread,
Accursed of God, and trampled on by men,
Shall sink in flames. And then the hour shall come,
When shadows, types, and symbols falling off,
That sheathed the truth and hid it, all shall know
The mystery of the Kingdom. Greek and Jew,
The seed of Japhet, and the sons of Shem,
And Ham's swarth brood shall offer up their prayer,
And all alike be heard. The middle wall
Is broken down, and God's great love expands
Beyond the utmost sea.”
Thus far he spake;
The rest wild yells cut off. They gnashed their teeth,
They tore their garments, cursed, and spat on him;
And then a moment's pause, and then a rush,
And we who stood below beheld his form
Fall headlong. On the Temple stones he lay,
All bruised and bleeding; but life still was there,
And slow, faint words came forth from quivering lips,
“Father, forgive them.” Then a giant form
Strode through the crowd, and with a fuller's club
(The man was one of those who do their work
Down by En-rogel) gave the final stroke,
And all was over. Then my soul was moved;
The fire was kindled. I had waited long
For truth to silence doubt, and now it came,
The token that I craved for. This man's life
Was one long worship. He who died this death,
Bearing this witness, had not lived a lie;
The hope that gave him strength, the love that taught
With good to conquer evil, were no dreams,
No vision of the night, no idle tale;
And therefore I believed: And so I spake,
“O fools, and blind. The blood ye shed will cry
From out the earth for vengeance. Once again
Ye slay the Just One. Lo, the cup is full,
The wine is mixed, the wine of God's great wrath,
And ye shall drink it even to the dregs:
I flee for refuge from that wrath to come
To Him, the One deliverer. All the past
I count but loss, if I may gain but that:
The place of honour in the Levites' chair,
The blessing that the sons of Rechab boast,
The long descent through lineage undefiled,
The vow that binds us to our father's name,
All these I cast aside to win but Thee,
Thou Christ of God.”
The rest wild yells cut off. They gnashed their teeth,
They tore their garments, cursed, and spat on him;
And then a moment's pause, and then a rush,
And we who stood below beheld his form
Fall headlong. On the Temple stones he lay,
All bruised and bleeding; but life still was there,
And slow, faint words came forth from quivering lips,
“Father, forgive them.” Then a giant form
Strode through the crowd, and with a fuller's club
(The man was one of those who do their work
122
And all was over. Then my soul was moved;
The fire was kindled. I had waited long
For truth to silence doubt, and now it came,
The token that I craved for. This man's life
Was one long worship. He who died this death,
Bearing this witness, had not lived a lie;
The hope that gave him strength, the love that taught
With good to conquer evil, were no dreams,
No vision of the night, no idle tale;
And therefore I believed: And so I spake,
“O fools, and blind. The blood ye shed will cry
From out the earth for vengeance. Once again
Ye slay the Just One. Lo, the cup is full,
The wine is mixed, the wine of God's great wrath,
And ye shall drink it even to the dregs:
I flee for refuge from that wrath to come
To Him, the One deliverer. All the past
I count but loss, if I may gain but that:
The place of honour in the Levites' chair,
The blessing that the sons of Rechab boast,
The long descent through lineage undefiled,
The vow that binds us to our father's name,
All these I cast aside to win but Thee,
Thou Christ of God.”
They heard; the cries,
Redoubled, rose. They led me to the gates;
They laid upon my head the dark, dire curse,
And sent me forth Anathema. Alone,
Homeless, dishonoured, reft of name and fame,
I hid myself by day, and wandered forth
When evening fell, not knowing where I went;
But through the shadow and the darkness shone
The presence of the Christ; and all night long
The heavens were opened. And the angels came,
Descending, rising, passing to and fro;
The lonely slope of Olivet became
A house of God, the very gate of Heaven;
And in the morn they welcomed me, the friends
Whom now I saw as angels, one in heart
And soul, and, all regardless of the curse
The priests had spoken, gave me rest and food.
They washed me in the stream that cleanses sin,
They broke the bread, and poured the wine or Christ;
And so I call thee brother; so old ties
Are knit again more closely, and our lives,
Long time divided, meet for evermore,
And we are priests within the Eternal Home,
The Temple of the City of our God.
Redoubled, rose. They led me to the gates;
123
And sent me forth Anathema. Alone,
Homeless, dishonoured, reft of name and fame,
I hid myself by day, and wandered forth
When evening fell, not knowing where I went;
But through the shadow and the darkness shone
The presence of the Christ; and all night long
The heavens were opened. And the angels came,
Descending, rising, passing to and fro;
The lonely slope of Olivet became
A house of God, the very gate of Heaven;
And in the morn they welcomed me, the friends
Whom now I saw as angels, one in heart
And soul, and, all regardless of the curse
The priests had spoken, gave me rest and food.
They washed me in the stream that cleanses sin,
They broke the bread, and poured the wine or Christ;
And so I call thee brother; so old ties
Are knit again more closely, and our lives,
Long time divided, meet for evermore,
And we are priests within the Eternal Home,
The Temple of the City of our God.
September, 1864.
124
THREE CUPS OF COLD WATER.
I.
The princely David, with his outlaw-band,
Lodged in the cave Adullam. Wild and fierce,
With lion-like faces, and with eagle eyes,
They followed where he led. The danger pressed,
For over all the land the Philistines
Had spread their armies. Through Rephaim's vale
Their dark tents mustered thick, and David's home,
His father's city, Bethlehem, owned them lords.
'Twas harvest, and the crops of ripening corn
They ravaged, and with rude feet trampled down
The tender vines. Men hid themselves for fear
In woods or caves. The brave undaunted few,
Gathering round David, sought the mountain hold.
The sun was hot, and all day long they watched
With spear in hand and never-resting eye,
As those who wait for battle; but at eve
The eye grew dim, the lips were parched with thirst,
And from that arid rock no trickling stream
Of living water gushed. From time-worn skins
The tainted drops were poured, and fevered lips
Half-loathing drank them up. And David's soul
Was weary; the hot simoom scorched his veins;
The strong sun smote on him, and, faint and sick,
He sat beneath the shadow of the rock:
And then before his eyes a vision came,
Cool evening, meadows green, and pleasant sounds
Of murmuring fountains. Oft in days of youth,
When leading home his flocks as sunset fell,
That fount had quenched his thirst, and dark-eyed girls,
The pride and joy of Bethlehem, meeting there,
Greeted the shepherd boy, their chieftain's son,
(As, bright and fair with waving locks of gold,
Exulting in the flush of youth's full glow,
He mingled with their throng), and gazing, rapt
With wonder at his beauty, gave him drink.
And now the words came feebly from his lips,
A murmur half in silence, which the ear
Of faithful followers caught: “Ah! who will bring
From that fair stream, which flowing by the gate
Of Bethlehem's wall makes music in the ear,
One drop to cool this tongue?” They heard, the three,
The mightiest of the thirty, swift of foot
As are the harts upon the mountains, strong
As are the lions down by Jordan's banks;
They heard and darted forth; down rock and crag
They leapt, as leaps the torrent on its course;
Through plain and vale they sped, and never stayed,
Until the wide encampment of the foe
Warned them of danger nigh. But not for fear
Abandoned they their task. When evening fell,
And all the Philistines were hushed in sleep,
And over all the plain the full, bright moon
Poured its rich lustre, onward still they stole,
By tent fires creeping with hushed breath, and feet
That feared to wake the echoes, till at last
They heard the babbling music, and the gleam
Of rippling moonlight caught their eager eye,
And o'er them fell the shade of Bethlehem's gate.
They tarried not. One full delicious draught
Slaked their fierce thirst, and then with anxious haste
They filled their water-urn, and full of joy,
They bore it back in triumph to their lord.
With quickened steps they tracked their path again
O'er plain and valley, up o'er rock and crag,
And as the early sunlight kissed the hills
They stood before him. He had won their hearts
By brave deeds, gentle words, and stainless life;
And now they came to give him proof of love,
And pouring out the water bade him drink.
But lo! he would not taste. He heard their tale
(In few words told, as brave men tell their deeds),
And lifting up his hands with solemn prayer,
As though he stood, a priest, before the shrine,
He poured it on the earth before the Lord.
“Far be it from me, God, that I should drink,
The slave of selfish lust, forgetting Thee,
Forgetting these my brothers. In Thine eyes
This water fresh and cool is as the blood
Of hero-souls who jeopardied their lives:
That blood I may not taste. As shrink the lips
From the hot life-stream of the Paschal Lamb,
So shrinks my soul from this. To Thee, O Lord,
To Thee I pour it. Thou wilt pardon me
For mine unkingly weakness, pardon them
For all rough deeds of war. Their noble love
Shall cover all their sins; for Thou hast claimed,
More than all blood of bulls and goats, the will
That, self-forgetting, lives in deeds like this.”
Lodged in the cave Adullam. Wild and fierce,
With lion-like faces, and with eagle eyes,
They followed where he led. The danger pressed,
For over all the land the Philistines
Had spread their armies. Through Rephaim's vale
Their dark tents mustered thick, and David's home,
His father's city, Bethlehem, owned them lords.
'Twas harvest, and the crops of ripening corn
They ravaged, and with rude feet trampled down
The tender vines. Men hid themselves for fear
In woods or caves. The brave undaunted few,
Gathering round David, sought the mountain hold.
The sun was hot, and all day long they watched
With spear in hand and never-resting eye,
As those who wait for battle; but at eve
The eye grew dim, the lips were parched with thirst,
And from that arid rock no trickling stream
125
The tainted drops were poured, and fevered lips
Half-loathing drank them up. And David's soul
Was weary; the hot simoom scorched his veins;
The strong sun smote on him, and, faint and sick,
He sat beneath the shadow of the rock:
And then before his eyes a vision came,
Cool evening, meadows green, and pleasant sounds
Of murmuring fountains. Oft in days of youth,
When leading home his flocks as sunset fell,
That fount had quenched his thirst, and dark-eyed girls,
The pride and joy of Bethlehem, meeting there,
Greeted the shepherd boy, their chieftain's son,
(As, bright and fair with waving locks of gold,
Exulting in the flush of youth's full glow,
He mingled with their throng), and gazing, rapt
With wonder at his beauty, gave him drink.
And now the words came feebly from his lips,
A murmur half in silence, which the ear
Of faithful followers caught: “Ah! who will bring
From that fair stream, which flowing by the gate
Of Bethlehem's wall makes music in the ear,
One drop to cool this tongue?” They heard, the three,
The mightiest of the thirty, swift of foot
As are the harts upon the mountains, strong
As are the lions down by Jordan's banks;
126
They leapt, as leaps the torrent on its course;
Through plain and vale they sped, and never stayed,
Until the wide encampment of the foe
Warned them of danger nigh. But not for fear
Abandoned they their task. When evening fell,
And all the Philistines were hushed in sleep,
And over all the plain the full, bright moon
Poured its rich lustre, onward still they stole,
By tent fires creeping with hushed breath, and feet
That feared to wake the echoes, till at last
They heard the babbling music, and the gleam
Of rippling moonlight caught their eager eye,
And o'er them fell the shade of Bethlehem's gate.
They tarried not. One full delicious draught
Slaked their fierce thirst, and then with anxious haste
They filled their water-urn, and full of joy,
They bore it back in triumph to their lord.
With quickened steps they tracked their path again
O'er plain and valley, up o'er rock and crag,
And as the early sunlight kissed the hills
They stood before him. He had won their hearts
By brave deeds, gentle words, and stainless life;
And now they came to give him proof of love,
And pouring out the water bade him drink.
But lo! he would not taste. He heard their tale
(In few words told, as brave men tell their deeds),
127
As though he stood, a priest, before the shrine,
He poured it on the earth before the Lord.
“Far be it from me, God, that I should drink,
The slave of selfish lust, forgetting Thee,
Forgetting these my brothers. In Thine eyes
This water fresh and cool is as the blood
Of hero-souls who jeopardied their lives:
That blood I may not taste. As shrink the lips
From the hot life-stream of the Paschal Lamb,
So shrinks my soul from this. To Thee, O Lord,
To Thee I pour it. Thou wilt pardon me
For mine unkingly weakness, pardon them
For all rough deeds of war. Their noble love
Shall cover all their sins; for Thou hast claimed,
More than all blood of bulls and goats, the will
That, self-forgetting, lives in deeds like this.”
So spake the hero-king, and all the host
Looked on and wondered; and those noble three,
The mightiest of the thirty, felt their souls
Knit closer to King David and to God.
Looked on and wondered; and those noble three,
The mightiest of the thirty, felt their souls
Knit closer to King David and to God.
II.
Through wastes of sand the train of camels wound
Their lingering way. The pilgrims, hasting on
To Mecca's shrine, were grieved and vexed at heart,
Impatient of delay. The scorching sand
Lay hot and blinding round them, and the blast
Of sultry winds, as from a furnace mouth,
Brought blackness to all faces. Whirling clouds
Of white dust filled their eyes, and, falling flat,
Crouching in fear, they waited till it passed.
Then, lifting up their eyes, there met their gaze
One fierce, hot glare, a waveless sea of sand.
No track of pilgrims' feet, nor whitening bones
Of camels or of asses, marked their way.
They wandered on, by sun and moon and stars
Guessing their path, not knowing where they went,
But Mecca's shrine they saw not. Day by day,
Their scant stores scantier grew. Their camels died;
No green oasis met their yearning eyes;
No rippling stream brought gladness to their hearts;
But glittering lakes that sparkled in the light,
Girt with the soft, green tufts of feathery palm,
Enticed them, hour by hour, to wander on,
And, as they neared them, turned to wastes of sand.
They thirsted, and with looks of blank despair
Beheld the emptied skins. One only, borne
By Ka'ab's camel, met their wistful gaze,—
Ka'ab, the rich, the noble, he who knew
The depths of [OMITTED], unto Allah's will
Resigning all his soul. And now he showed
How out of that submission flows the strength
For noblest acts of love. That priceless store
He claimed not as his own: the ‘mine’ and ‘thine’
Of selfish right he scattered to the winds,
And to his fellow-pilgrims offered all.
They shared it all alike. To Ka'ab's self
And Ka'ab's slave an equal portion came:
“Allah is great,” he cried, about to drink
With thankful adoration, when a wail
Of eager craving burst from parchèd lips,
And upturned eyes with fevered anguish watched
The precious life-draught. Ka'ab heard that cry,
His eye beheld that anguish, and his heart
Was stirred with pity. Tasting not a drop,
With calm and loving look he passed the cup
To those poor dying lips, and bore his thirst,
As martyrs bear their flames. His soul had learnt,
Not Islam's creed alone that God is great:
A mightier name was written on his heart,
“God, the compassionate, the merciful;”
And yielding up his will to God's, the three,
Compassion, mercy, greatness, were as one.
Their lingering way. The pilgrims, hasting on
To Mecca's shrine, were grieved and vexed at heart,
128
Lay hot and blinding round them, and the blast
Of sultry winds, as from a furnace mouth,
Brought blackness to all faces. Whirling clouds
Of white dust filled their eyes, and, falling flat,
Crouching in fear, they waited till it passed.
Then, lifting up their eyes, there met their gaze
One fierce, hot glare, a waveless sea of sand.
No track of pilgrims' feet, nor whitening bones
Of camels or of asses, marked their way.
They wandered on, by sun and moon and stars
Guessing their path, not knowing where they went,
But Mecca's shrine they saw not. Day by day,
Their scant stores scantier grew. Their camels died;
No green oasis met their yearning eyes;
No rippling stream brought gladness to their hearts;
But glittering lakes that sparkled in the light,
Girt with the soft, green tufts of feathery palm,
Enticed them, hour by hour, to wander on,
And, as they neared them, turned to wastes of sand.
They thirsted, and with looks of blank despair
Beheld the emptied skins. One only, borne
By Ka'ab's camel, met their wistful gaze,—
Ka'ab, the rich, the noble, he who knew
The depths of [OMITTED], unto Allah's will
Resigning all his soul. And now he showed
How out of that submission flows the strength
129
He claimed not as his own: the ‘mine’ and ‘thine’
Of selfish right he scattered to the winds,
And to his fellow-pilgrims offered all.
They shared it all alike. To Ka'ab's self
And Ka'ab's slave an equal portion came:
“Allah is great,” he cried, about to drink
With thankful adoration, when a wail
Of eager craving burst from parchèd lips,
And upturned eyes with fevered anguish watched
The precious life-draught. Ka'ab heard that cry,
His eye beheld that anguish, and his heart
Was stirred with pity. Tasting not a drop,
With calm and loving look he passed the cup
To those poor dying lips, and bore his thirst,
As martyrs bear their flames. His soul had learnt,
Not Islam's creed alone that God is great:
A mightier name was written on his heart,
“God, the compassionate, the merciful;”
And yielding up his will to God's, the three,
Compassion, mercy, greatness, were as one.
So ends the tale. And whether death came soon
As sleep's twin-brother, with the longed-for rest,
And clear, bright streams in Paradise refreshed
The fevered thirsts of earth; or if the dawn
Revealed the distant gleam of Mecca's shrine,
And led those pilgrims on to Zemzem's fount.
We know not. This we know, that evermore,
Like living water from the flinty rock,
Gladdening the hearts of Hagar's sons, as once
God's angel helped the mother and her child,
The memory of that noble deed flows on,
And quickens into life each fainting heart,
And through long ages, in each Arab's tent
It passed into a proverb—“Ka'ab's deed
Of noble goodness:—There is none like that.”
As sleep's twin-brother, with the longed-for rest,
And clear, bright streams in Paradise refreshed
The fevered thirsts of earth; or if the dawn
Revealed the distant gleam of Mecca's shrine,
And led those pilgrims on to Zemzem's fount.
130
Like living water from the flinty rock,
Gladdening the hearts of Hagar's sons, as once
God's angel helped the mother and her child,
The memory of that noble deed flows on,
And quickens into life each fainting heart,
And through long ages, in each Arab's tent
It passed into a proverb—“Ka'ab's deed
Of noble goodness:—There is none like that.”
III.
The setting sun fell low on Zutphen's plain;
The fight was over, and the victory won,
And out of all the din and stir of war
They bore the flower of Christian chivalry,
The life-blood gushing out. He came, the pure,
The true, the stainless, all youth's fiery glow,
All manhood's wisdom, blended into one,
To help the weak against the strong, to drive
The Spaniard from a land which was not his,
And claim the right of all men to be free,
Free in their life, their polity, their faith.
He came, no poor ambition urging on,
But loyalty and duty, first to God,
And then to her, the Virgin Queen, who ruled
His guileless heart, and of a thousand good
Found him the best. We wonder that he bowed
Before so poor an idol, knowing not
That noble souls transfer their nobleness
To that whereon they gaze, and through the veils
Of custom or of weakness reach the heart
That beats, as theirs, with lofty thoughts and true.
And now that life was ebbing. Men had hoped
To see in him the saviour of the state
From thickening perils, one in open war
To cope with Alva, and in subtle skill,
Bating no jot of openness and truth,
To baffle all the tortuous wiles of Spain:
And some who knew him better hoped to see
His poet's spirit do a poet's work,
With sweetest music giving voice and shape
To all the wondrous thoughts that stirred the age,
Moving the world's great heart, attracting all,
The children at their play, the old man bent
By blazing hearths, to listen and rejoice.
The fight was over, and the victory won,
And out of all the din and stir of war
They bore the flower of Christian chivalry,
The life-blood gushing out. He came, the pure,
The true, the stainless, all youth's fiery glow,
All manhood's wisdom, blended into one,
To help the weak against the strong, to drive
The Spaniard from a land which was not his,
And claim the right of all men to be free,
Free in their life, their polity, their faith.
He came, no poor ambition urging on,
But loyalty and duty, first to God,
And then to her, the Virgin Queen, who ruled
His guileless heart, and of a thousand good
131
Before so poor an idol, knowing not
That noble souls transfer their nobleness
To that whereon they gaze, and through the veils
Of custom or of weakness reach the heart
That beats, as theirs, with lofty thoughts and true.
And now that life was ebbing. Men had hoped
To see in him the saviour of the state
From thickening perils, one in open war
To cope with Alva, and in subtle skill,
Bating no jot of openness and truth,
To baffle all the tortuous wiles of Spain:
And some who knew him better hoped to see
His poet's spirit do a poet's work,
With sweetest music giving voice and shape
To all the wondrous thoughts that stirred the age,
Moving the world's great heart, attracting all,
The children at their play, the old man bent
By blazing hearths, to listen and rejoice.
And now his sun was setting. Faint and weak
They bore him to his tent, and loss of blood
Brought on the burning thirst of wounded men,
And he too craved for water. Brothers true,
Companions of his purpose and his risk,
Brought from the river in their helmet cup
The draught he longed for. Yet he drank it not;
That eye had fallen on another's woe,
That ear was open to another's sigh,
That hand was free to give, and pitying love,
In that sharp pain of death, had conquered self.
The words were few and simple: “Not for me;
I may not taste: He needs it more than I:”
Few as all noblest words are, pearls and gems
Of rarest lustre; but they found their way,
More than all gifts of speech or poet's skill,
To stir the depths of England's heart of hearts,
And gave to Sidney's name a brighter life,
A nobler fame through all the immortal years,
Than Raleigh's friendship, or his own brave deeds,
Or counsels wise, or Spenser's silver notes,—
A trumpet-call to bid the heart awake,
A beacon-light to all the rising youth,
Fit crown of glory to that stainless life,
The perfect pattern of a Christian knight,
The noblest hero of our noblest age.
They bore him to his tent, and loss of blood
Brought on the burning thirst of wounded men,
And he too craved for water. Brothers true,
Companions of his purpose and his risk,
Brought from the river in their helmet cup
The draught he longed for. Yet he drank it not;
That eye had fallen on another's woe,
That ear was open to another's sigh,
132
In that sharp pain of death, had conquered self.
The words were few and simple: “Not for me;
I may not taste: He needs it more than I:”
Few as all noblest words are, pearls and gems
Of rarest lustre; but they found their way,
More than all gifts of speech or poet's skill,
To stir the depths of England's heart of hearts,
And gave to Sidney's name a brighter life,
A nobler fame through all the immortal years,
Than Raleigh's friendship, or his own brave deeds,
Or counsels wise, or Spenser's silver notes,—
A trumpet-call to bid the heart awake,
A beacon-light to all the rising youth,
Fit crown of glory to that stainless life,
The perfect pattern of a Christian knight,
The noblest hero of our noblest age.
IV.
And one day they shall meet before their God,The Hebrew, and the Moslem, and the flower
Of England's knighthood. On the great white throne
The Judge shall sit, and from his lips shall flow
Divinest words: “Come, friends and brothers, come;
133
Your weariness and woe were also mine;
The cry, ‘I thirst,’ has issued from these lips;
And I too would not drink, but bore the pain,
Yielding my will to do my Father's work,
And so that work was finished; so I learnt
The fullest measure of obedience, learnt
The wide, deep love embracing all mankind,
Passing through all the phases of their woe
That I before their God might plead for all.
And thus through all the pulses of their life
I suffer when they suffer, count each deed
Of mercy done to them as done to Me,
Am one with them in sorrow and in joy,
Rejoicing in their likeness to My life,
And bearing still the burden of their sins
For which I once was offered. I was there,
The Light of each man's soul, in that wild cave,
On that parched desert, on that tented field;
That self-forgetting love I owned as Mine,
And ye who, true to that diviner Light
Which triumphed over nature, freely gave
That water to the thirsty, gave to Me.
Brother, and friend, and Lord of all men, I
Count nothing human alien from myself,
And lifted up upon the Cross, I draw
By that supremest love the hearts of all.
Come therefore, come, ye blessed, to the Light
134
Your feet the upward path. That Light ye saw,
Or dimly dawning on the mountain height,
Or bursting forth in glory as the morn,
Or brightening onward to the perfect day,
And, seeing it, were glad. Ye heard the Voice
Which bade you mount the steep and narrow way,
And did not close your ears. Ye knew not then
Whence came the Light, and whose the Voice that spake:
Now when all mists are fled, and ever hushed
The world's loud murmur, ye shall see and hear,
As children looking on their Father's face,
And welcomed by their Brother's words of peace.
Yours was the work of yielding all for Him,
Through clouds and darkness pressing on in faith;
Yours the reward of looking back on life,
The fight well fought, the race well run, to see
That all things true and good were wrought in God.”
May, 1864.
135
‘VIE DE JÉSUS.’
“Has then the Christ departed? Is there none
To whom the lonely and the lost may turn?
Does one cold mist of doubt, distrust, despair,
Enwrap the carcase of a sunless world?
The Son of God, the Son of Man, is gone,
Before whose throne we spake adoring praise;
And through the shadows of the past we see
A graceful Rabbi, dreaming glorious dreams,
Dizzied with fame, then weakly stooping low
To poor deceits, whose death alone redeemed
The clouded life, and saved him from the taint
Of conscious falsehood. And the lips that speak
These bold revilings once have hymned His praise;
Those hands have waved the censer's fragrant smoke,
Those knees have knelt upon the altar stairs,
That heart has loved the sacred wounds of Christ!
Why falls not fire from Heaven? why opes not earth
The jaws of Hades? And our zeal is cold;
We listen and we argue, when the sword
Were our best answer, cutting down the pride
That dares blaspheme the Lord and Christ we love.
To whom the lonely and the lost may turn?
Does one cold mist of doubt, distrust, despair,
Enwrap the carcase of a sunless world?
The Son of God, the Son of Man, is gone,
Before whose throne we spake adoring praise;
And through the shadows of the past we see
A graceful Rabbi, dreaming glorious dreams,
Dizzied with fame, then weakly stooping low
To poor deceits, whose death alone redeemed
The clouded life, and saved him from the taint
Of conscious falsehood. And the lips that speak
These bold revilings once have hymned His praise;
Those hands have waved the censer's fragrant smoke,
Those knees have knelt upon the altar stairs,
That heart has loved the sacred wounds of Christ!
136
The jaws of Hades? And our zeal is cold;
We listen and we argue, when the sword
Were our best answer, cutting down the pride
That dares blaspheme the Lord and Christ we love.
“But since the days are evil, and men's thoughts
Assert their freedom, other course is ours.
To battle for the faith with arms of proof,
Denouncing, taunting, warning men to shun
The tainted page, to prop the tottering Truth,
Condemning doubts and questions that before
We passed uncensured:—that may help us on
To firmer faith, to high repute of zeal.
Perhaps some fame may follow, and the eyes
Of men admiring watch us as we stand
(As Phinehas stood of old to stay the plague)
Between the dead and living, warding off
Doubt's fell disease, defenders of the faith.
Sweet are those praises to a righteous zeal,
The plaudits of the timid and the good;
And not less sweet the murmurs of the few
Who carp at our advancement. And the praise
May bear its fruit, the title and the wealth,
The years of manhood in abounding ease,
The age of stately honour. When some years
Have passed away, when doubts and answers both
Are clean forgotten, this may yet remain,
For us the only issue of the strife.”
Assert their freedom, other course is ours.
To battle for the faith with arms of proof,
Denouncing, taunting, warning men to shun
The tainted page, to prop the tottering Truth,
Condemning doubts and questions that before
We passed uncensured:—that may help us on
To firmer faith, to high repute of zeal.
Perhaps some fame may follow, and the eyes
Of men admiring watch us as we stand
(As Phinehas stood of old to stay the plague)
Between the dead and living, warding off
Doubt's fell disease, defenders of the faith.
Sweet are those praises to a righteous zeal,
The plaudits of the timid and the good;
And not less sweet the murmurs of the few
Who carp at our advancement. And the praise
May bear its fruit, the title and the wealth,
The years of manhood in abounding ease,
The age of stately honour. When some years
Have passed away, when doubts and answers both
Are clean forgotten, this may yet remain,
For us the only issue of the strife.”
137
The only issue?—What of those long years
That lie beyond the manhood and the age,
The sickness, and the death? In that far land,
Throughout the eternal ages, will thy thoughts
Run on thus smoothly? Hast thou learnt indeed
To read the times and seasons? Hast thou heard
The witness which the doubter bears to thee?
Thou priest, with waving censer, mitred brow,
And cope all stiff with crimson and with gold,
Hast thou forgotten that the Christ was man?
Hast thou left vacant all the heart's desire,
And mocked it with the likeness of a child
Or image of the Crucified? Thy Lord
Has given thee all the records of His life,
And thou hast made them silent. Wonder not
That men should fill the gap with aught that brings
The living Man before them. They will have
A Jesus with the pulse of human life,
The throbs of human feeling. Failing that,
No pageant show will draw them on to faith,
Nor music's spell enchant them, nor the power
Of ancient systems lull their souls asleep:
But give them this,—proclaim the living Christ,
The youth, the man, all tempted, struggling, worn,
Labouring and suffering as the millions now
Suffer and labour, homeless, poor, contemned,
Not clothed in purple, faring daintily,
But sharing peasants' food in peasants' huts;
And tell them that He bowed Himself to this,
To all the shame, the agony, the Cross,
For them, and sufferers like them,—and be sure
Thou wilt find listeners. Not the gilded shrine
Of Virgin-Mother, clad in gorgeous robes
All star-bespangled, when the anthem swells,
And incense-fragrance floats through loftiest choir,
Will draw more hearts to worship than the tale
Of One who came their Brother and their Friend,
Sharing their nature, living all their life.
And thou, thou boaster of a purer faith,
That lie beyond the manhood and the age,
The sickness, and the death? In that far land,
Throughout the eternal ages, will thy thoughts
Run on thus smoothly? Hast thou learnt indeed
To read the times and seasons? Hast thou heard
The witness which the doubter bears to thee?
Thou priest, with waving censer, mitred brow,
And cope all stiff with crimson and with gold,
Hast thou forgotten that the Christ was man?
Hast thou left vacant all the heart's desire,
And mocked it with the likeness of a child
Or image of the Crucified? Thy Lord
Has given thee all the records of His life,
And thou hast made them silent. Wonder not
That men should fill the gap with aught that brings
The living Man before them. They will have
A Jesus with the pulse of human life,
The throbs of human feeling. Failing that,
No pageant show will draw them on to faith,
Nor music's spell enchant them, nor the power
Of ancient systems lull their souls asleep:
But give them this,—proclaim the living Christ,
The youth, the man, all tempted, struggling, worn,
Labouring and suffering as the millions now
Suffer and labour, homeless, poor, contemned,
Not clothed in purple, faring daintily,
But sharing peasants' food in peasants' huts;
138
To all the shame, the agony, the Cross,
For them, and sufferers like them,—and be sure
Thou wilt find listeners. Not the gilded shrine
Of Virgin-Mother, clad in gorgeous robes
All star-bespangled, when the anthem swells,
And incense-fragrance floats through loftiest choir,
Will draw more hearts to worship than the tale
Of One who came their Brother and their Friend,
Sharing their nature, living all their life.
Zealous to censure this extreme or that,
Is there no message for thy soul to hear?
Hast thou made Christ the leader of a sect,
Within thine own poor limits narrowing down
The wider pulses of His human heart?
Hast thou made much of words, and forms, and tests,
And thought but little of the peace and love,
His Gospel to the poor? Dost thou condemn
Thy brother, looking down, in pride of heart,
On each poor wanderer from the folds of Truth?
Dost thou gloss over as a venial sin
The trespass of the rich, his selfish state,
His pomp, and pride, and luxury, pressing hard,
As did the Pharisees of old, on sins
That others yield to? Art thou swift to bind
Thy burdens on the poor, still making sad
139
To lifeless dogma all the living truth,
Feeding the hungry with the straw and chaff,
Mocking the thirsty with the tainted stream?
Oh! marvel not that they should turn to one
Who tells them of that human heart of Christ,
In spite of all that robs them of their hope,
Their faith in Him who was, and is to come,
The eternal Son of God. Preach thou the Christ,
The Judge of all the mighty ones of earth,
The friend of all the poor and meek of heart,
The foe of all the hypocrites and Scribes,
And thou shalt find thy words wake echoes loud
In hearts of all the multitude who toil,
To whom their Sabbath brings but sensuous rest,
Who enter not or church or chapel gate,
In grim suspicion looking on thy work
As leagued with those against them. Go thy way,
Take Heaven's own armour for the heavenly strife,
Welcome all helpers in thy war with sin;
Make proof, full proof, of all the gifts which God
Has showered upon His Church,—the pastor's care,
The preacher's power, the layman's skill to teach,
His unbought service,—and the end will show
Thou need'st not fear the doubter or his book.
And in thy struggle cease thou not to pray
For him, the poor reviler, who repeats
140
“He casts out devils by Beelzebub;”
In wilful blindness he has sinned the sin
Against the Son of Man, yet still he loves
The purity and truth, the grace and peace,
Which drew the hearts of all men. Pray that still
That love may lead him onward, that the mists
Of that thick-gathering twilight may disperse,
Ere o'er him fall the darkness of the abyss,
The thrice-dread sin which may not be forgiven,
That shuts out love and pity, awe and hope;
That he, the scorner, low in dust, may lie
Before the bright steps of the Eternal Throne,
And crave forgiveness. And do thou repent
Of all thy feignèd service of thy Lord,
Of all thy words unreal and thoughts untrue,
And selfish cares, and poor and earth-born fears.
Judge thou thyself, the lost ones seek and save,
And learn through all the future of thy years
To form thy life in likeness of thy Lord's.
May, 1864.
141
RIZPAH THE DAUGHTER OF AIAH.
[I.]
I sit in the silence of evening; the shadows are falling apace,
And forms that have vanished flit round me. The years that are past I retrace:
The scroll of my life is unrolled; one moment of vision enough
To grasp all the joys and the sorrows, to travel the smooth and the rough.
First come the days of my childhood, fair home on the Gilead hills,
The cool balm-scent of the breeze, and the music of murmuring rills;
I joyed in the moist green meadows where Jordan lovingly flows,
Bright with the golden lilies, and flushed with the purple rose;
The kids of the goats bleated kindly, following me to the stream,
And the eyes of the tame gazelle made me glad with their womanly gleam.
When heroes and chiefs of my tribe marched by with their shield and their lance,
And forth from the gates of the city came maidens with song and with dance,
Who but I was foremost among them, rejoicing, timbrel in hand,
To welcome the men stout of heart who had fought for our fathers' land?
We mourned not then for the dead: not as the fools had they died,
But warring against the uncircumcised, taming the Philistines' pride:
The sword of Jehovah was theirs, the Lord of Sabaoth their guide.
And then when our bondage was over, we went forth at eve from the gate
(No fear of the noise of archers), round the wells to gather and wait,
Drawing water for mothers and children, from well deep, sparkling, and cool,
Instead of the few scant drops from the city's defilèd pool.
Ah, bright were the days, and pleasant, the golden spring of my year;
Now the flowers of the spring are all withered, my life is wasted and sere.
Full strange was the chance of my life; I passed from a fond mother's side
To be the beloved of a king, in all but name a king's bride.
Saul saw me, and loved me, and won me, the king, the anointed, the brave;
Gladly for him had I died, yea, gladly had lived as his slave.
Worthy of love he stood, in the stately pride of his height,
And towered above Israel's hosts, armed and arrayed for the fight;
That lofty form was the dwelling of soul full as lofty and great;
The soul of a king was there, strong in its love and its hate.
And mine, oh! mine was the love; the warrior, mighty to slay,
In his giant embrace would fold me, with my braided tresses would play;
And ev'n when the dark hour came, and the hand of the Lord on him fell,
And instead of the clear light of heaven, brought the clouds and the darkness of hell;
When moody and sullen he sat, and all were afraid to draw near,
When David fled from his presence, and Jonathan shrank from his spear,
When curses fell thickly around, and the madness all soothing defied,
I still might draw near without dread, might safely crouch at his side.
If I failed to equal his skill, the shepherd-boy with his song,
David, fair-faced, golden-haired, his soul as yet guiltless of wrong,
Trained by the prophet of Ramah the songs full and deep to intone,
Whose music floats, like the incense, upward through clouds to the Throne,
Music that he, my king, when it rose in its wave-like swell,
From the white-robed band of seers, with a strange, o'er-mastering spell,
Silent and rapt, would list to, till he bowed to its mighty sway,
And with kingly robes cast off, all night on the hard earth lay;
And instead of the curses of madness, instead of the silent despair,
Joined in the great Hallelujah that burst, like a storm, through the air,
“Is Saul too among the prophets?” men said, in their wonder and scorn,
As the deep waters welled from the soul, through the might of that music new-born.
This was not mine to do, but my woman's heart had the trick
To pour in its Gilead-balm when the iron had pierced to the quick;
My touch on that burning brow would soothe the frenzied despair;
My smile would bend into fondness that fixed and terrible glare:
No curses dark, no maddened rage, might my soul in its deep love, appal;
Though God and man might forsake him, he was yet mine own, my king Saul.
And forms that have vanished flit round me. The years that are past I retrace:
The scroll of my life is unrolled; one moment of vision enough
To grasp all the joys and the sorrows, to travel the smooth and the rough.
First come the days of my childhood, fair home on the Gilead hills,
The cool balm-scent of the breeze, and the music of murmuring rills;
I joyed in the moist green meadows where Jordan lovingly flows,
Bright with the golden lilies, and flushed with the purple rose;
The kids of the goats bleated kindly, following me to the stream,
142
When heroes and chiefs of my tribe marched by with their shield and their lance,
And forth from the gates of the city came maidens with song and with dance,
Who but I was foremost among them, rejoicing, timbrel in hand,
To welcome the men stout of heart who had fought for our fathers' land?
We mourned not then for the dead: not as the fools had they died,
But warring against the uncircumcised, taming the Philistines' pride:
The sword of Jehovah was theirs, the Lord of Sabaoth their guide.
And then when our bondage was over, we went forth at eve from the gate
(No fear of the noise of archers), round the wells to gather and wait,
Drawing water for mothers and children, from well deep, sparkling, and cool,
Instead of the few scant drops from the city's defilèd pool.
Ah, bright were the days, and pleasant, the golden spring of my year;
Now the flowers of the spring are all withered, my life is wasted and sere.
143
To be the beloved of a king, in all but name a king's bride.
Saul saw me, and loved me, and won me, the king, the anointed, the brave;
Gladly for him had I died, yea, gladly had lived as his slave.
Worthy of love he stood, in the stately pride of his height,
And towered above Israel's hosts, armed and arrayed for the fight;
That lofty form was the dwelling of soul full as lofty and great;
The soul of a king was there, strong in its love and its hate.
And mine, oh! mine was the love; the warrior, mighty to slay,
In his giant embrace would fold me, with my braided tresses would play;
And ev'n when the dark hour came, and the hand of the Lord on him fell,
And instead of the clear light of heaven, brought the clouds and the darkness of hell;
When moody and sullen he sat, and all were afraid to draw near,
When David fled from his presence, and Jonathan shrank from his spear,
144
I still might draw near without dread, might safely crouch at his side.
If I failed to equal his skill, the shepherd-boy with his song,
David, fair-faced, golden-haired, his soul as yet guiltless of wrong,
Trained by the prophet of Ramah the songs full and deep to intone,
Whose music floats, like the incense, upward through clouds to the Throne,
Music that he, my king, when it rose in its wave-like swell,
From the white-robed band of seers, with a strange, o'er-mastering spell,
Silent and rapt, would list to, till he bowed to its mighty sway,
And with kingly robes cast off, all night on the hard earth lay;
And instead of the curses of madness, instead of the silent despair,
Joined in the great Hallelujah that burst, like a storm, through the air,
“Is Saul too among the prophets?” men said, in their wonder and scorn,
As the deep waters welled from the soul, through the might of that music new-born.
145
To pour in its Gilead-balm when the iron had pierced to the quick;
My touch on that burning brow would soothe the frenzied despair;
My smile would bend into fondness that fixed and terrible glare:
No curses dark, no maddened rage, might my soul in its deep love, appal;
Though God and man might forsake him, he was yet mine own, my king Saul.
Children around us grew: Armoni, the brave and the bold,
With bright eyes like an antelope's, and locks of burnished gold;
Mephibosheth, oh, how unlike the crippled slave who lives,
And eats at David's table of the bread his master gives!
No cripple, my Mephibosheth, but supple, lithe of limb,
Before Jehovah fair and bright, none might compare to him.
When the day of his weaning came, hour of a fond mother's pride,
Kish came, and Abner, to greet us; they came from the hills far and wide,
The elders of Gilead brought gifts, the corn, and the oil, and the wine,
Cheese from the milk of the goats, and fruit of the fig-tree and vine;
With dancing and song in their joy, in music exulting and wild,
They sang the praise of my boy, the praise of my own princely child.
With bright eyes like an antelope's, and locks of burnished gold;
Mephibosheth, oh, how unlike the crippled slave who lives,
And eats at David's table of the bread his master gives!
No cripple, my Mephibosheth, but supple, lithe of limb,
Before Jehovah fair and bright, none might compare to him.
When the day of his weaning came, hour of a fond mother's pride,
Kish came, and Abner, to greet us; they came from the hills far and wide,
146
Cheese from the milk of the goats, and fruit of the fig-tree and vine;
With dancing and song in their joy, in music exulting and wild,
They sang the praise of my boy, the praise of my own princely child.
Now all is gone as a dream. The king (though I saw it not)
Fell fighting with Philistines in the battle fierce and hot.
On Gilboa's heights he fell: God's curses on them rest!
May no dew of heaven fall on them, be they barren and unblest!
He fell, his brave son with him; the uncircumcisèd crew
In that dark hour my noble Saul, the Lord's anointed, slew;
On Bethshan's wall they hung him, all stript and stained with blood,
The ghastly sport of scoffers, and the vulture's hideous food;
The king who had clothed us in purple, the pride of his people, hung there,
Shaming the sun in the heavens, poisoning the summer night-air.
Blest be the warriors of Gilead, the men of Jabesh the strong;
They had not forgotten the hero who saved them from outrage and wrong;
By night they came silent and swift; not plundering, eager to slay,
But holy and pure in their souls as the priests when they stand up and pray.
They stole to the gate of the city; the watchmen slept on their posts;
Speechless they crept on the walls, through the slumbering Philistines' hosts;
Goodly the spoil they brought back, the mouldering bones of the brave;
They gave them a chieftain's burial, they dug them a chieftain's grave;
Under that old oak of Jabesh they laid him, the lordly, the tall;
For seven days and nights they wept sore over their king, and my king, my Saul.
Fell fighting with Philistines in the battle fierce and hot.
On Gilboa's heights he fell: God's curses on them rest!
May no dew of heaven fall on them, be they barren and unblest!
He fell, his brave son with him; the uncircumcisèd crew
In that dark hour my noble Saul, the Lord's anointed, slew;
On Bethshan's wall they hung him, all stript and stained with blood,
The ghastly sport of scoffers, and the vulture's hideous food;
The king who had clothed us in purple, the pride of his people, hung there,
Shaming the sun in the heavens, poisoning the summer night-air.
147
They had not forgotten the hero who saved them from outrage and wrong;
By night they came silent and swift; not plundering, eager to slay,
But holy and pure in their souls as the priests when they stand up and pray.
They stole to the gate of the city; the watchmen slept on their posts;
Speechless they crept on the walls, through the slumbering Philistines' hosts;
Goodly the spoil they brought back, the mouldering bones of the brave;
They gave them a chieftain's burial, they dug them a chieftain's grave;
Under that old oak of Jabesh they laid him, the lordly, the tall;
For seven days and nights they wept sore over their king, and my king, my Saul.
It was well. David heard it. It pleased him: he too would lament.
Over the beauty of Israel. In every Israelite's tent
That song of the Bow re-echoed, which told of the father and son,
Lovely and pleasant together, in life as in death ever one;
Which told of the wonderful love, tender, and fervent, and true,
The love of the pure and the stainless, love granted only to few.
“Passing the love of woman,” he called it. Well might he call;
He gauged not the depths of my heart, my love for my hero, my Saul;
He married for power or for wealth, paving his steps to the throne;
Men might admire him and love, but no woman's heart was his own;
Michal, Saul's daughter, she scorned him, and Bathsheba's homage, I ween,
Was not as a true maiden's love, but the trick of a would-be queen.
Over the beauty of Israel. In every Israelite's tent
That song of the Bow re-echoed, which told of the father and son,
Lovely and pleasant together, in life as in death ever one;
148
The love of the pure and the stainless, love granted only to few.
“Passing the love of woman,” he called it. Well might he call;
He gauged not the depths of my heart, my love for my hero, my Saul;
He married for power or for wealth, paving his steps to the throne;
Men might admire him and love, but no woman's heart was his own;
Michal, Saul's daughter, she scorned him, and Bathsheba's homage, I ween,
Was not as a true maiden's love, but the trick of a would-be queen.
The days of my mourning were over. I wept for my dead for a while;
But a mother needs must rejoice in the light of her children's smile:
They grew in their youth, and their manhood, keeneyed, quick of foot and of hand,
And Abner spake loud in their praise, as the first of his goodly band.
Abner, the brave, he too loved me; I was fain to love him in return;
To whom in her desolate shame could the outcast concubine turn?
Yet not as Saul could I love him; the freshness of passion was gone,
Which sweeps the whole current of life to its loved one exultingly on;
I was fair in his sight; and he, I found him kindly and brave;
I was true as a wife to her husband, and wept true tears at his grave.
My sons too found him a father: he taught them the use of the bow,
Taught them to strike down the lion, to fight, hand to hand, with the foe.
They fought for the birthright of Saul in that long and lingering strife.
The sons of a king were they, in them flowed the kingly life:
They were true to their name and their fame, true to their oath and their word,
Till at last the struggle was over, and Israel owned David as lord.
“Now,” I thought, “they are mine till I die. The danger is over, is past;
My life will no longer be dreary, the sky is no longer o'ercast.”
But a mother needs must rejoice in the light of her children's smile:
They grew in their youth, and their manhood, keeneyed, quick of foot and of hand,
And Abner spake loud in their praise, as the first of his goodly band.
Abner, the brave, he too loved me; I was fain to love him in return;
To whom in her desolate shame could the outcast concubine turn?
149
Which sweeps the whole current of life to its loved one exultingly on;
I was fair in his sight; and he, I found him kindly and brave;
I was true as a wife to her husband, and wept true tears at his grave.
My sons too found him a father: he taught them the use of the bow,
Taught them to strike down the lion, to fight, hand to hand, with the foe.
They fought for the birthright of Saul in that long and lingering strife.
The sons of a king were they, in them flowed the kingly life:
They were true to their name and their fame, true to their oath and their word,
Till at last the struggle was over, and Israel owned David as lord.
“Now,” I thought, “they are mine till I die. The danger is over, is past;
My life will no longer be dreary, the sky is no longer o'ercast.”
150
II.
So it was for a time; but ere long there fell upon Israel a curse,
Evil still following on evil, bad passing on into worse;
No showers fell softly from heaven, the streams of the hills were all hushed,
The hot sun had burnt them all up, and the sky as a furnace was flushed;
Red, fierce, and malignant its rays, like flames from a fathomless hell,
Over the dry, parched vineyards and the desolate olive-grounds fell;
Wild asses ran hither and thither, snuffing the air as they went,
The streams that water the valleys were long since vanished and spent.
Iron-bound and hard was the earth: no tender herbage was seen;
No fresh corn gladdened the eyes with its tufts of feathery green;
The fair broad valleys of Shechem were like one vast desert of sand,
And the people fainted with hunger; the famine was sore in the land.
Evil still following on evil, bad passing on into worse;
No showers fell softly from heaven, the streams of the hills were all hushed,
The hot sun had burnt them all up, and the sky as a furnace was flushed;
Red, fierce, and malignant its rays, like flames from a fathomless hell,
Over the dry, parched vineyards and the desolate olive-grounds fell;
Wild asses ran hither and thither, snuffing the air as they went,
The streams that water the valleys were long since vanished and spent.
Iron-bound and hard was the earth: no tender herbage was seen;
No fresh corn gladdened the eyes with its tufts of feathery green;
The fair broad valleys of Shechem were like one vast desert of sand,
And the people fainted with hunger; the famine was sore in the land.
151
Three years passed over our heads, with the sickness of hope deferred;
They prayed, but they prayed in vain; not a voice to answer was heard;
The king mourned sore for his people, the people were hushed in despair:
What arm but their God's could relieve them? and that arm against them was bare.
When vision and prophet had failed them, they turned in their utter distress
To the great High Priest of our nation, and he, in his priestly dress,
In the bright robes of Aaron his father (so have they told me the tale)
Entered the Holy of Holies, the darkness within the veil;
The twelve bright gems on his breast, that he for his people might plead,
No tribe unremembered there in that hour of the nation's need;
And over his heart there sparkled the Urim's mysterious glow,
Its wild, oracular rays pregnant with weal or with woe;
As he went (so they told me) it gleamed with the lurid, terrible red,
Which told that blood-guilt was upon us, that for blood more blood must be shed.
And Abiathar standing there, with fixed, immoveable gaze,
Looked down through the thick, black darkness on the strange, disastrous blaze.
Long time he stood stiffened and dumb, by the hand of Jehovah oppressed;
At last, half-choked as he spake it, the hollow voice came from his breast:
Forth from his faltering lips the death-bearing oracle flew:
“For Saul and his bloody house, for them who the Gibeonites slew,
For them has the curse fallen on us, for them has the land waxen faint;
Theirs is the putrid sore, yea, theirs is the pestilent taint;
The sword of the Lord will fall heavy alike on evil and good;
All have shared in the guilt by their silence—the land is defilèd with blood.”
They prayed, but they prayed in vain; not a voice to answer was heard;
The king mourned sore for his people, the people were hushed in despair:
What arm but their God's could relieve them? and that arm against them was bare.
When vision and prophet had failed them, they turned in their utter distress
To the great High Priest of our nation, and he, in his priestly dress,
In the bright robes of Aaron his father (so have they told me the tale)
Entered the Holy of Holies, the darkness within the veil;
The twelve bright gems on his breast, that he for his people might plead,
No tribe unremembered there in that hour of the nation's need;
And over his heart there sparkled the Urim's mysterious glow,
Its wild, oracular rays pregnant with weal or with woe;
As he went (so they told me) it gleamed with the lurid, terrible red,
Which told that blood-guilt was upon us, that for blood more blood must be shed.
152
Looked down through the thick, black darkness on the strange, disastrous blaze.
Long time he stood stiffened and dumb, by the hand of Jehovah oppressed;
At last, half-choked as he spake it, the hollow voice came from his breast:
Forth from his faltering lips the death-bearing oracle flew:
“For Saul and his bloody house, for them who the Gibeonites slew,
For them has the curse fallen on us, for them has the land waxen faint;
Theirs is the putrid sore, yea, theirs is the pestilent taint;
The sword of the Lord will fall heavy alike on evil and good;
All have shared in the guilt by their silence—the land is defilèd with blood.”
I knew it. That slaughter was evil. They had not wronged him, those slaves,
Hewing wood, drawing water, nought else, till they slept in their graves:
No glory was there to win, no men of renown to lay low;
They perished as brute beasts perish, bowing their heads to the blow;
Why should Saul, the hero, the strong, stain his sword with the blood of the weak?
What led him on children and women his terrible vengeance to wreak?
I know not. The deed was done. In vain for mercy they cried;
The oath of our fathers availed not; Saul gave the command, and they died.
It was true: I may not deny it; atonement was needed. No time
Could blot out that foul stain of blood, could cancel that dark day of crime;
The cries of the widow and orphan had risen for vengeance on high;
Thence came the drought and the famine, the curse on the earth and the sky;
Gladly we offered our treasures, our gold and our silver, our all,
To build up the desolate homes made empty and lonely by Saul.
But, oh! was it right to risk all on the hated Gibeonites' choice,
The lives of the freemen of Israel to hang on the bond-slaves' voice,
The sons of a king to perish for obeying their father's command,
As the scapegoat dies in the wilderness, bearing the sins of the land?
Wily and subtle as ever, the Gibeonites scoffed at our prayer;
No sight would glut their revenge but the looking on our despair;
They knew that the fallen are friendless. One only King David would save;
The son of his darling Jonathan might creep to his father's grave;
Dearly did Michal pay for the taunt of her passing scorn,
When the five who called her mother from her fond embrace were torn.
Was it well this deed should be his, the Psalmist-king who had told
Of truths that our fathers knew not in the rougher days of old?
From the white-robed choir of the Levites, in the courts of our Sacred Tent,
His hymns had spread through all Israel, waking new thoughts as they went,
Proclaiming to all that no blood of bulls or of goats might avail,
That thousands of rams, ten thousands of rivers of oil would fail,
That one thing only God asks for, the broken and penitent heart,
That all who repent and believe in the glad news of mercy have part.
Was it right that he should disown this, that human victims should bleed,
As for Moloch, the King of Gehenna, to the true God of Abraham's seed?
Was the sickening odour that tainted the soft south wind as it passed,
A fragrance of sweet-smelling incense that in His sight found favour at last?
Hewing wood, drawing water, nought else, till they slept in their graves:
No glory was there to win, no men of renown to lay low;
They perished as brute beasts perish, bowing their heads to the blow;
153
What led him on children and women his terrible vengeance to wreak?
I know not. The deed was done. In vain for mercy they cried;
The oath of our fathers availed not; Saul gave the command, and they died.
It was true: I may not deny it; atonement was needed. No time
Could blot out that foul stain of blood, could cancel that dark day of crime;
The cries of the widow and orphan had risen for vengeance on high;
Thence came the drought and the famine, the curse on the earth and the sky;
Gladly we offered our treasures, our gold and our silver, our all,
To build up the desolate homes made empty and lonely by Saul.
But, oh! was it right to risk all on the hated Gibeonites' choice,
The lives of the freemen of Israel to hang on the bond-slaves' voice,
The sons of a king to perish for obeying their father's command,
As the scapegoat dies in the wilderness, bearing the sins of the land?
154
No sight would glut their revenge but the looking on our despair;
They knew that the fallen are friendless. One only King David would save;
The son of his darling Jonathan might creep to his father's grave;
Dearly did Michal pay for the taunt of her passing scorn,
When the five who called her mother from her fond embrace were torn.
Was it well this deed should be his, the Psalmist-king who had told
Of truths that our fathers knew not in the rougher days of old?
From the white-robed choir of the Levites, in the courts of our Sacred Tent,
His hymns had spread through all Israel, waking new thoughts as they went,
Proclaiming to all that no blood of bulls or of goats might avail,
That thousands of rams, ten thousands of rivers of oil would fail,
That one thing only God asks for, the broken and penitent heart,
That all who repent and believe in the glad news of mercy have part.
155
As for Moloch, the King of Gehenna, to the true God of Abraham's seed?
Was the sickening odour that tainted the soft south wind as it passed,
A fragrance of sweet-smelling incense that in His sight found favour at last?
I know not: faint, weary, perplexed, I bowed my head to the shame,
I did not tremble or weep when the hour of my agony came:
They led them out one by one, they fastened each to his cross,
While I, the mother, stood silent, counting my infinite loss;
With nail and with cord they bound them, each one to his cursèd tree
On the hill of Gibeah of Saul (so ran King David's decree),
Before the Lord they hanged them, with muttered curses and prayer,
And the priests laid the sins of the nation on their heads of waving hair;
In Gibeah of Saul, in the home where they in their childhood had played,
And their father's heart had exulted, as he sat in the terebinth's shade,
In Gibeah of Saul, where of old the people had hailed him as king,
Glad to repose for a while, their jubilant praises to sing.
I did not tremble or weep when the hour of my agony came:
They led them out one by one, they fastened each to his cross,
While I, the mother, stood silent, counting my infinite loss;
With nail and with cord they bound them, each one to his cursèd tree
On the hill of Gibeah of Saul (so ran King David's decree),
Before the Lord they hanged them, with muttered curses and prayer,
And the priests laid the sins of the nation on their heads of waving hair;
In Gibeah of Saul, in the home where they in their childhood had played,
And their father's heart had exulted, as he sat in the terebinth's shade,
156
Glad to repose for a while, their jubilant praises to sing.
A few days before, when as yet the barley was green in the ear,
They and I ate our Passover meal. We wept not; no tear
Made the bitter herbs yet more bitter. With solemn, unwavering voice
They sang of the stretched-out arm that had made our fathers rejoice.
It was over, that feast. Ere yet the people had gone to their home,
Ere the sickle was put to the corn, or the ripening wave-sheaf had come,
They led them forth one by one, my own, my goodly and brave.
They trembled not, feared not: not with the dread of the slave,
Not with the fire of the warrior struggling with passionate breath,
Not with the tears of a woman, went they to the hour of their death.
Strange peace, not of earth, had come o'er them. They stood there, willing to die,
Offered for Israel's sake, to draw rain from the hot, sullen sky.
Without one struggle or cry, calm in their patience they stood,
Calm as when Abraham, our father, laid Isaac, his son, on the wood,
Patient as Isaac was when he bowed his head to the knife;
Dumb as the sheep to his shearers, so they, too, yielded their life.
They and I ate our Passover meal. We wept not; no tear
Made the bitter herbs yet more bitter. With solemn, unwavering voice
They sang of the stretched-out arm that had made our fathers rejoice.
It was over, that feast. Ere yet the people had gone to their home,
Ere the sickle was put to the corn, or the ripening wave-sheaf had come,
They led them forth one by one, my own, my goodly and brave.
They trembled not, feared not: not with the dread of the slave,
Not with the fire of the warrior struggling with passionate breath,
Not with the tears of a woman, went they to the hour of their death.
Strange peace, not of earth, had come o'er them. They stood there, willing to die,
Offered for Israel's sake, to draw rain from the hot, sullen sky.
157
Calm as when Abraham, our father, laid Isaac, his son, on the wood,
Patient as Isaac was when he bowed his head to the knife;
Dumb as the sheep to his shearers, so they, too, yielded their life.
That, too, was over. The crowds were scattered each to his own;
The darkness came over the land. I was left to mourn there alone;
I looked on the pale, wan features that once I had lovingly pressed,
Sweet with the fragrant oil as a field which the Lord God hath blest;
I looked on the tortured forms, which once were supple and lithe,
Leaping from crag to crag, as the roebuck joyous and blithe;
Weary and worn I slept not, yet my waking thoughts were as dreams;
Through the dark overhanging shadows there came strange and wonderful gleams.
I had asked in my woe, “How came this? Why did evil begin?
Why should fresh curse upon curse fall, heaping sin upon sin?
Why was their youth cut off in all its beauty and prime?
How could their blood atone for their own or their fathers' crime?”
A voice came forth from the darkness, just heard in the silence of night,
A whisper making one tremble, a murmur ineffably light;
“And hast thou not learnt it, O mourner? hath not the oracle come,
Giving sight to the eyes that were blind, giving speech to the lips that were dumb?
Thy sons, thou hast loved them of old, but when in thy life didst thou know
The power of love in its might till that love was mingled with woe?
When were they worthiest of love? Was it when eager and young,
They chased the wild deer on the hills, and, leaping, rejoiced as they sung?
Was it when, ardent, exulting, they fought with the foes of their race,
To the fiercest and bravest of all turning their lion-like face?
Or is it not now, when thou seest them a sacrifice meet for the Lord,
Willing victims, self-offered, pure, looking on high for reward?
Yes, He owns them, their Father, their God, the Almighty, All Good,
Not as Moloch, the King of Gehenna, delighting in slaughter and blood,
But rejoicing, accepting, forgiving, whenever the fire of his love
Burns in the hearts of his servants, as it burns in the seraphs above,
When, ceasing to live for themselves, they are ready to die for their race,
Willing as cursèd to suffer, that it may find mercy and grace:
Through all the confusions of guilt, David's weakness, the Gibeonites' wrong,
Through all the harsh discords and darkness God is still eternally strong;
The thick clouds of evil pass off, the distant horizon is clear,
The day-star of hope has arisen, the dawn of Redemption is near.”
The darkness came over the land. I was left to mourn there alone;
I looked on the pale, wan features that once I had lovingly pressed,
Sweet with the fragrant oil as a field which the Lord God hath blest;
I looked on the tortured forms, which once were supple and lithe,
Leaping from crag to crag, as the roebuck joyous and blithe;
Weary and worn I slept not, yet my waking thoughts were as dreams;
Through the dark overhanging shadows there came strange and wonderful gleams.
I had asked in my woe, “How came this? Why did evil begin?
Why should fresh curse upon curse fall, heaping sin upon sin?
158
How could their blood atone for their own or their fathers' crime?”
A voice came forth from the darkness, just heard in the silence of night,
A whisper making one tremble, a murmur ineffably light;
“And hast thou not learnt it, O mourner? hath not the oracle come,
Giving sight to the eyes that were blind, giving speech to the lips that were dumb?
Thy sons, thou hast loved them of old, but when in thy life didst thou know
The power of love in its might till that love was mingled with woe?
When were they worthiest of love? Was it when eager and young,
They chased the wild deer on the hills, and, leaping, rejoiced as they sung?
Was it when, ardent, exulting, they fought with the foes of their race,
To the fiercest and bravest of all turning their lion-like face?
Or is it not now, when thou seest them a sacrifice meet for the Lord,
Willing victims, self-offered, pure, looking on high for reward?
159
Not as Moloch, the King of Gehenna, delighting in slaughter and blood,
But rejoicing, accepting, forgiving, whenever the fire of his love
Burns in the hearts of his servants, as it burns in the seraphs above,
When, ceasing to live for themselves, they are ready to die for their race,
Willing as cursèd to suffer, that it may find mercy and grace:
Through all the confusions of guilt, David's weakness, the Gibeonites' wrong,
Through all the harsh discords and darkness God is still eternally strong;
The thick clouds of evil pass off, the distant horizon is clear,
The day-star of hope has arisen, the dawn of Redemption is near.”
As the word of the Lord comes to prophet or priest, so it came,
Making my bones to tremble, burning my heart with its flame,
And then as new thoughts woke within me, I questioned once more:
“Ah me, if the death of my sons can thus avail to restore,
Can turn from a sin-stained land the darkness that over it hung,
Giving life to the perishing soul, giving speech to the faltering tongue,
What might not He do, when He, the King, the Anointed shall come,
Claiming us all as His people, leading us all to His home;
He whom our prophets have told of, saying to His Father, ‘Thy will,
Yea, even thine, O my God, have I come upon earth to fulfil.’
If a king were to reign on this earth, not warring and slaying, like Saul,
But ruling in mercy and peace, loving and gentle to all,
Nobler and truer and kinder than David was in his youth,
Walking in stainless purity, clad in invincible truth;
If He, in the depth of His love, were willing His people to save
From all that torments and divides them, from death and the power of the grave;
If He, as my sons hang before me, were to hang on the cursèd tree,
Self-yielding His life when His will to keep or to lose it was free,
Choosing to suffer man's sorrows, choosing man's burden to bear,
Tempted as they are tempted, tasting their doubt and despair,
Would not that life be great beyond all man's fancy can dream?
Would not that death be strong in the might of its power to redeem?
There also my sorrow, it may be, shall not be contemned in his eyes;
There, also, a mother's fond love may watch by the cross till He dies.
I feel I can measure her grief: I dare believe He would turn
His pitying look upon me, nor the sin-stained concubine spurn;
Outcast and scorned though I be, I dream I might venture there
To wash His feet with my tears, to wipe those feet with my hair.”
Making my bones to tremble, burning my heart with its flame,
And then as new thoughts woke within me, I questioned once more:
“Ah me, if the death of my sons can thus avail to restore,
160
Giving life to the perishing soul, giving speech to the faltering tongue,
What might not He do, when He, the King, the Anointed shall come,
Claiming us all as His people, leading us all to His home;
He whom our prophets have told of, saying to His Father, ‘Thy will,
Yea, even thine, O my God, have I come upon earth to fulfil.’
If a king were to reign on this earth, not warring and slaying, like Saul,
But ruling in mercy and peace, loving and gentle to all,
Nobler and truer and kinder than David was in his youth,
Walking in stainless purity, clad in invincible truth;
If He, in the depth of His love, were willing His people to save
From all that torments and divides them, from death and the power of the grave;
If He, as my sons hang before me, were to hang on the cursèd tree,
Self-yielding His life when His will to keep or to lose it was free,
161
Tempted as they are tempted, tasting their doubt and despair,
Would not that life be great beyond all man's fancy can dream?
Would not that death be strong in the might of its power to redeem?
There also my sorrow, it may be, shall not be contemned in his eyes;
There, also, a mother's fond love may watch by the cross till He dies.
I feel I can measure her grief: I dare believe He would turn
His pitying look upon me, nor the sin-stained concubine spurn;
Outcast and scorned though I be, I dream I might venture there
To wash His feet with my tears, to wipe those feet with my hair.”
The vision was over; I woke to my lonely, terrible task,
But hope, strength, life were within me, all I had ventured to ask;
On the rock I spread forth my sackcloth, with my torch I scared away
The vultures and the dogs unclean that scented out their prey.
Day passed on after day, and the harvest-fields grew white,
And the maiden-gleaners shuddered as they watched the ghastly sight:
All summer long I bore the heat of the fiery sun at noon,
And at night I faced the maddening rays of the sullen, lurid moon;
The bodies withered on the trees, till at last the raindrops fell,
The first fresh showers that blest the earth with soft and quickening spell:
“The curse was past,” men said, “their fears for the future might cease,
The Lord was entreated for Israel; the land might again dwell in peace.”
But hope, strength, life were within me, all I had ventured to ask;
On the rock I spread forth my sackcloth, with my torch I scared away
The vultures and the dogs unclean that scented out their prey.
162
And the maiden-gleaners shuddered as they watched the ghastly sight:
All summer long I bore the heat of the fiery sun at noon,
And at night I faced the maddening rays of the sullen, lurid moon;
The bodies withered on the trees, till at last the raindrops fell,
The first fresh showers that blest the earth with soft and quickening spell:
“The curse was past,” men said, “their fears for the future might cease,
The Lord was entreated for Israel; the land might again dwell in peace.”
Men told the king of my watching, and the heart of David was moved,
And once again there woke in him the thought of those he had loved.
He gave them a kingly tomb: in the grave of their fathers they sleep;
Men may go there to tell of their praise, I may go there to sit and to weep:
And the heroes also are there. In that grave father and son,
Lovely and pleasant together, still undivided are one,
My sons, too, sleep with their father, and I, when the Angel of Death
Shall summon my soul to depart with the icy cold of his breath,
When life's long struggle is over, and the shadows over me fall,
Shall lie down to rest by his side, by the side of my loved one, my Saul.
And once again there woke in him the thought of those he had loved.
He gave them a kingly tomb: in the grave of their fathers they sleep;
Men may go there to tell of their praise, I may go there to sit and to weep:
And the heroes also are there. In that grave father and son,
Lovely and pleasant together, still undivided are one,
163
Shall summon my soul to depart with the icy cold of his breath,
When life's long struggle is over, and the shadows over me fall,
Shall lie down to rest by his side, by the side of my loved one, my Saul.
March, 1864.
| Lazarus And other Poems | |