A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings Edited by Edward Harston |
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 | II. | PART II.
SCRIPTURE POEMS. |
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| III. |
 | A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings |  |
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II. PART II. SCRIPTURE POEMS.
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HANNAH.
I. PART I.
“I am a woman of a sorrowful spirit.”—1 Sam. i. 15.
“Why weepest thou?
Why dwells that gloom upon thy gentle brow,
When here with clouds of fragrant incense rise
The morning and the evening sacrifice,
And God, our fathers' God, accepts my vow?
Why, in the shadow of His holy place,
Who so doth bless our race,
That from the highest Heav'n He doth descend
His gracious ear to lend,
That He doth stoop from the eternal hills
And their desire fulfils,
Who seek the curtain'd footstool of His throne;
Is not His will made known?
Go to His shrine and leave thy sorrow there,
The God of Israel waits to answer prayer.
The place is holy ground,
Angelic messengers its gates surround;
But not upon their sinless wings are borne
The broken pleadings that from earth ascend,
The groans, the tears, the sighs—
Sighs of the oppress'd, complaints of the forlorn.
He who with manna once our fathers fed,
And through the wilderness their footsteps led
To this their promis'd land,
Did not, albeit their sins provok'd him sore,
His gracious presence from their tribes withdraw.
He trusts no angel hand
To take the blessings that from Heaven's gate flow
And scatter them below—
No angel voice to be his delegate
And bring him tidings of his people's state;
Not to an angel's ear
Doth He entrust man's feeble vows to hear.
Hidden from mortal ken
He heareth, shadowing the mercy-seat,
The prayers that sorrow poureth at his feet,
For his delights are with the sons of men.
Why dwells that gloom upon thy gentle brow,
When here with clouds of fragrant incense rise
The morning and the evening sacrifice,
And God, our fathers' God, accepts my vow?
Why, in the shadow of His holy place,
Who so doth bless our race,
That from the highest Heav'n He doth descend
His gracious ear to lend,
That He doth stoop from the eternal hills
And their desire fulfils,
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Is not His will made known?
Go to His shrine and leave thy sorrow there,
The God of Israel waits to answer prayer.
The place is holy ground,
Angelic messengers its gates surround;
But not upon their sinless wings are borne
The broken pleadings that from earth ascend,
The groans, the tears, the sighs—
Sighs of the oppress'd, complaints of the forlorn.
He who with manna once our fathers fed,
And through the wilderness their footsteps led
To this their promis'd land,
Did not, albeit their sins provok'd him sore,
His gracious presence from their tribes withdraw.
He trusts no angel hand
To take the blessings that from Heaven's gate flow
And scatter them below—
No angel voice to be his delegate
And bring him tidings of his people's state;
Not to an angel's ear
Doth He entrust man's feeble vows to hear.
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He heareth, shadowing the mercy-seat,
The prayers that sorrow poureth at his feet,
For his delights are with the sons of men.
“Immortal and invisible, He yet
On the frail dust of earth His love hath set—
Holy of Holies, he doth not despise
The praises that from sinful voices rise—
Why weepest thou?
In spring the stream that pours down bursting tides
In summer gently glides;
But my love in a changeless current runs—
Am not I better to thee than ten sons?
Why weepest thou?”
On the frail dust of earth His love hath set—
Holy of Holies, he doth not despise
The praises that from sinful voices rise—
Why weepest thou?
In spring the stream that pours down bursting tides
In summer gently glides;
But my love in a changeless current runs—
Am not I better to thee than ten sons?
Why weepest thou?”
“By night I slept and in my dream Peninnah me did greet,
Methought a clod of earth she held, and dropp'd it at my feet,
And lo! the clod of earth wax'd great, and spread from side to side,
Till far it stretch'd beyond my view, a desert drear and wide.
Methought a clod of earth she held, and dropp'd it at my feet,
And lo! the clod of earth wax'd great, and spread from side to side,
Till far it stretch'd beyond my view, a desert drear and wide.
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“Methought across its arid plains with restless foot I went,
Nor wandering cloud nor frowning rock a welcome shadow lent;
Methought I knew not what I sought as still I onward hied,
Nor why so long contented stray'd from thy beloved side.
Nor wandering cloud nor frowning rock a welcome shadow lent;
Methought I knew not what I sought as still I onward hied,
Nor why so long contented stray'd from thy beloved side.
“'Twas but a dream, and yet the sun beat down with scorching ray,
The earth was hot beneath my feet, I could not get away;
When suddenly a stately tree from out the desert grew,
And spread abroad its branches light, its green leaves wet with dew.
The earth was hot beneath my feet, I could not get away;
When suddenly a stately tree from out the desert grew,
And spread abroad its branches light, its green leaves wet with dew.
“A stately tree, and while I gaz'd with wonder and surprise,
A fountain bubbling from the earth sprang up before mine eyes,
So near the trunk, that o'er its source the tree its shadow flung,
And in the waters clear and cold its verdant branches hung.
A fountain bubbling from the earth sprang up before mine eyes,
So near the trunk, that o'er its source the tree its shadow flung,
And in the waters clear and cold its verdant branches hung.
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“Hard by the widely spreading roots that little fountain stray'd,
As fain to linger near the tree for which alone it play'd;
Then wand'ring forth I watch'd its course that glitter'd in the light,
'Till, swallow'd by the treach'rous sand, it vanish'd from my sight.
As fain to linger near the tree for which alone it play'd;
Then wand'ring forth I watch'd its course that glitter'd in the light,
'Till, swallow'd by the treach'rous sand, it vanish'd from my sight.
“No waving reed nor desert herb its barren margin grac'd,
Across the bare and thankless plain its waters ran to waste;
The sheltering tree that o'er it droop'd drank of the flowing tide,
No sapling rising from its root the lonely rill supplied.
Across the bare and thankless plain its waters ran to waste;
The sheltering tree that o'er it droop'd drank of the flowing tide,
No sapling rising from its root the lonely rill supplied.
“I woke, the tears were on my cheek: the tinkling of the rill,
The wind's low murmur in the tree, methought I heard them still:
Alas! the lightning's stroke at length must lay the proud tree low,
Would that the little fount might then for ever cease to flow!
The wind's low murmur in the tree, methought I heard them still:
Alas! the lightning's stroke at length must lay the proud tree low,
Would that the little fount might then for ever cease to flow!
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“Thou art that lofty branching tree, for strength and beauty made,
And I the rill that had its source beneath the spreading shade;
Fresh from the well-spring of my heart it bounds, a silvery tide,
That fain would still reflect thy face and linger at thy side.
And I the rill that had its source beneath the spreading shade;
Fresh from the well-spring of my heart it bounds, a silvery tide,
That fain would still reflect thy face and linger at thy side.
“O sheltering tree, with goodly boughs, beneath whose shade I live,
I weep because no other pledge of love I have to give.
No tender saplings I have rear'd to flourish in thy stead,
When thou laid prostrate in the vale shalt bow thy lofty head.
I weep because no other pledge of love I have to give.
No tender saplings I have rear'd to flourish in thy stead,
When thou laid prostrate in the vale shalt bow thy lofty head.
“Thou didst behold my friendless youth and draw me to thy heart,
Thou hast a father's loss supplied, and done a brother's part:
Thou didst the orphan'd maiden's cup e'en to o'er-flowing fill,
The childless wife from thee receives a goodly portion still!
Thou hast a father's loss supplied, and done a brother's part:
Thou didst the orphan'd maiden's cup e'en to o'er-flowing fill,
The childless wife from thee receives a goodly portion still!
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“I love thee, yet no gift can bring to offer at thy shrine,
If fain I would some portion yield, all that I have is thine.
For me thou dost arise betimes and pay thy vows to Heaven—
All this and more I have receiv'd, but nothing have I given!
If fain I would some portion yield, all that I have is thine.
For me thou dost arise betimes and pay thy vows to Heaven—
All this and more I have receiv'd, but nothing have I given!
“No blooming babe with artless tongue I to thine arms can bring,
I have not got that best of gifts to be mine offering.
She does not love thee more than I, whose children climb thy knee—
O, that my father's God would grant that long'd-for gift to me!
I have not got that best of gifts to be mine offering.
She does not love thee more than I, whose children climb thy knee—
O, that my father's God would grant that long'd-for gift to me!
“Peninnah's daughters in her room shall rise, her name to bless,
Her children's children round her cling, to crave her proud caress.
Peninnah's sons upon her tomb shall shed their filial tears,
Her honour'd name shall live with thine, through all succeeding years.
Her children's children round her cling, to crave her proud caress.
Peninnah's sons upon her tomb shall shed their filial tears,
Her honour'd name shall live with thine, through all succeeding years.
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“But I the history of my love must unrecorded leave—
When my place knoweth me no more, who shall remain to grieve?
No future times shall link with thine my life, my hopes, my fears,
And they who see my tomb shall give no sighs, no love, no tears.”
When my place knoweth me no more, who shall remain to grieve?
No future times shall link with thine my life, my hopes, my fears,
And they who see my tomb shall give no sighs, no love, no tears.”
“Why weepest thou?”
Those low words sooth'd her, as she went to bow
With thoughtful spirit at the holy place,
And sunset clouds reflected in her face
Their own bright hue. She thought upon her vow,
And a faint hope into her heart did stray,
That He who bids men pray,
Would not unheeded leave her humble cry,
Vouchsafing no reply.
By purple veil, by crimson canopy,
Meekly she bent her knee,
Pouring her soul out till the glow of day
Melted to dusk away,
And lighted lamps God's hallow'd place display'd,
To her who at its outmost portals pray'd.
Those low words sooth'd her, as she went to bow
With thoughtful spirit at the holy place,
And sunset clouds reflected in her face
Their own bright hue. She thought upon her vow,
And a faint hope into her heart did stray,
That He who bids men pray,
Would not unheeded leave her humble cry,
Vouchsafing no reply.
By purple veil, by crimson canopy,
Meekly she bent her knee,
Pouring her soul out till the glow of day
Melted to dusk away,
And lighted lamps God's hallow'd place display'd,
To her who at its outmost portals pray'd.
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“Holy of Holies, veil'd in light too pure for mortal eyes,
Before whose throne doth Israel's prayer like fragrant incense rise,
I know thy mighty actions past and all thy book foretells,
And fear to come too near the place wherein thine honour dwells!
Before whose throne doth Israel's prayer like fragrant incense rise,
I know thy mighty actions past and all thy book foretells,
And fear to come too near the place wherein thine honour dwells!
“God, who from lofty Lebanon, dost melt the winter snows,
Who mak'st the barren wilderness to blossom as the rose,
Who from the smitten rock didst pour floods on the desert sand,
And cause the clouds to rain down food on an unfruitful land—
Who mak'st the barren wilderness to blossom as the rose,
Who from the smitten rock didst pour floods on the desert sand,
And cause the clouds to rain down food on an unfruitful land—
“Is anything too hard for Thee, that mortal lips can crave?
Thou who to childless Sarah erst our father Isaac gave,
I know without thy high behest on earth is nothing done:
Since life and death are in thy hand—Oh! give to me a son!
Thou who to childless Sarah erst our father Isaac gave,
I know without thy high behest on earth is nothing done:
Since life and death are in thy hand—Oh! give to me a son!
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“Thou art acquainted with my ways, far off as well as near;
And her reproaches who hath caus'd my sorrow, thou dost hear:
Thou mark'st the windings of my path, each step my foot hath trod,
Wilt thou not look upon my tears? O God! my father's God!
And her reproaches who hath caus'd my sorrow, thou dost hear:
Thou mark'st the windings of my path, each step my foot hath trod,
Wilt thou not look upon my tears? O God! my father's God!
“I know that when Messias comes for whom the nations wait,
The Prince whose sceptre shall prevail to raise our fallen state—
He shall for all the sons of men a perfect offering make,
I pray thee then accept my vow for thine Anointed's sake.
The Prince whose sceptre shall prevail to raise our fallen state—
He shall for all the sons of men a perfect offering make,
I pray thee then accept my vow for thine Anointed's sake.
“If on my grief thou wilt indeed look down with pitying eye,
And grant the boon my spirit craves, the long'd-for gift supply:
Soon as the child can lisp thy praise, thy glorious name adore,
I will return him, in thy courts to serve for evermore.
And grant the boon my spirit craves, the long'd-for gift supply:
Soon as the child can lisp thy praise, thy glorious name adore,
I will return him, in thy courts to serve for evermore.
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“Him from my bosom I will spare, will rear him for thy shrine,
Contented soon to give him up and feel that he is thine,
Myself will teach him that with thee 'tis better to abide,
Will wean his love away from me and lead him from my side.
Contented soon to give him up and feel that he is thine,
Myself will teach him that with thee 'tis better to abide,
Will wean his love away from me and lead him from my side.
“If, when in future years I come to seek thy holy place,
He should unconscious turn away, forgetful of my face;
And ne'er return the tender love that must surround him still,
I will not murmur nor complain—only, my prayer fulfil!”
He should unconscious turn away, forgetful of my face;
And ne'er return the tender love that must surround him still,
I will not murmur nor complain—only, my prayer fulfil!”
“Why weepest thou?”
In different tones the words were utter'd now
To those that on her meek attentive ear
Her husband pour'd to dry her starting tear,
Striving her suffering spirit to endow
With the calm thoughts that in his tranquil breast
Had taken up their rest.
Nor like His voice who in the garden spoke,
When on his empty tomb the day-light broke,
Where Mary wept in loneliness of soul,
'Till to her heart his pitying accents stole,
Chasing away the anguish from her brow
With his lov'd words, “Woman, why weepest thou?”
In different tones the words were utter'd now
To those that on her meek attentive ear
Her husband pour'd to dry her starting tear,
Striving her suffering spirit to endow
With the calm thoughts that in his tranquil breast
Had taken up their rest.
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When on his empty tomb the day-light broke,
Where Mary wept in loneliness of soul,
'Till to her heart his pitying accents stole,
Chasing away the anguish from her brow
With his lov'd words, “Woman, why weepest thou?”
Reproachfully they fell,
Those cold harsh tones, and scarcely could she tell
What they might mean, so startlingly that came
To check her pleadings and her tears to blame—
“Why weepest thou before the holy shrine?
Put far from thee thy wine:
Wilt thou the temple of thy God profane?
Go, seek thy home again:
May His insulted love who dwells within,
Forgive thee this thy sin.”
Those cold harsh tones, and scarcely could she tell
What they might mean, so startlingly that came
To check her pleadings and her tears to blame—
“Why weepest thou before the holy shrine?
Put far from thee thy wine:
Wilt thou the temple of thy God profane?
Go, seek thy home again:
May His insulted love who dwells within,
Forgive thee this thy sin.”
Meekly she answer'd him;
For in the clear thin twilight, soft yet dim,
She mark'd the priestly garb, the silver hair;
And rising from her prayer,
Parted the dark locks that upon her face
Had fallen like a veil. 'Twas strange disgrace
That such suspicion on her head should rest,
Troubling her modest breast.
For in the clear thin twilight, soft yet dim,
She mark'd the priestly garb, the silver hair;
And rising from her prayer,
Parted the dark locks that upon her face
Had fallen like a veil. 'Twas strange disgrace
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Troubling her modest breast.
“Let not my lord mistake,
Chide not thine handmaid for her weeping's sake;
I am a woman sorrowful in heart,
Unwilling from the holy shrine to part;
In the abundance of my bitter grief
Here did I seek relief—
And in the silence that His walls afford,
Have poured out my soul before the Lord.”
And he said “Go in peace,
Thy father's God grant thee a full release,
Bless thee according to His bounteous will,
And thy request fulfil.”
Chide not thine handmaid for her weeping's sake;
I am a woman sorrowful in heart,
Unwilling from the holy shrine to part;
In the abundance of my bitter grief
Here did I seek relief—
And in the silence that His walls afford,
Have poured out my soul before the Lord.”
And he said “Go in peace,
Thy father's God grant thee a full release,
Bless thee according to His bounteous will,
And thy request fulfil.”
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II. PART II.
“My heart rejoiceth in the Lord.”—1 Sam. ii. 1.
The daylight broke,
The child was sleeping, but the mother woke;
Then darkness fled, and, trembling still afar,
Hung in the ruddy east the morning star;
A fleeting thing, of midnight hours that spoke,
One of her gems that Night had left behind,
When, restless like the wind,
Spreading her dusky wings she fled away,
Shunning the face of day,
And cowering sunk beyond the reach of dawn,
On western plains forlorn.
The child was sleeping, but the mother woke;
Then darkness fled, and, trembling still afar,
Hung in the ruddy east the morning star;
A fleeting thing, of midnight hours that spoke,
One of her gems that Night had left behind,
When, restless like the wind,
Spreading her dusky wings she fled away,
Shunning the face of day,
And cowering sunk beyond the reach of dawn,
On western plains forlorn.
The sky grew brighter and the Temple hymn,
Begun in twilight dim,
Still softly echo'd in the balmy air,
When the first sunbeam touch'd the house of prayer.
The morning star shrunk in,
Lost in the light, with all its radiant kin.
But few had mark'd it in the glowing skies:—
To toil or pleasure risen, the busy throng
Crowding the narrow pathways press'd along—
The blessed sun was welcome to their eyes
New wak'd, and thoughtful for their daily lot,
They dwelt no more on blessings needed not
To crown their opening day—
Of peaceful rest did no glad record keep,
But let remembrance of their quiet sleep
Fade with the star away.
Begun in twilight dim,
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When the first sunbeam touch'd the house of prayer.
The morning star shrunk in,
Lost in the light, with all its radiant kin.
But few had mark'd it in the glowing skies:—
To toil or pleasure risen, the busy throng
Crowding the narrow pathways press'd along—
The blessed sun was welcome to their eyes
New wak'd, and thoughtful for their daily lot,
They dwelt no more on blessings needed not
To crown their opening day—
Of peaceful rest did no glad record keep,
But let remembrance of their quiet sleep
Fade with the star away.
But she beheld, that watcher calm and mild
Beside her sleeping child—
She saw it sink into the glowing sky;
And still he woke not—though the time drew nigh,
The time to give him up—her first-born son—
The darling of her heart—her only one.
Yet 'twas for this she sought him, when with tears
She came in other years,
With trembling heart by long reproaches worn,
And fears conflicting torn—
Yet 'twas for this she rear'd him—this delay'd
Her yearly offering, erst in Shiloh paid;
And now rejoicing, to its portals bound,
She brought the blessing that her prayer had crown'd.
Her hope fulfill'd—her promise unforgot,
She came and linger'd not.
The level sunbeams lighted on the place
Where still he slumber'd in his child-like grace;
She came and laid her hand upon his head,
And softly thus she said:—
Beside her sleeping child—
She saw it sink into the glowing sky;
And still he woke not—though the time drew nigh,
The time to give him up—her first-born son—
The darling of her heart—her only one.
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She came in other years,
With trembling heart by long reproaches worn,
And fears conflicting torn—
Yet 'twas for this she rear'd him—this delay'd
Her yearly offering, erst in Shiloh paid;
And now rejoicing, to its portals bound,
She brought the blessing that her prayer had crown'd.
Her hope fulfill'd—her promise unforgot,
She came and linger'd not.
The level sunbeams lighted on the place
Where still he slumber'd in his child-like grace;
She came and laid her hand upon his head,
And softly thus she said:—
“Sleep on while yet beside thy couch her watch thy mother keeps,
There is a Guardian of thy rest, who slumbers not nor sleeps—
Sleep on, though morning's early light across thy curtain beams,
Thy mother's voice perhaps no more shall mingle with thy dreams.
There is a Guardian of thy rest, who slumbers not nor sleeps—
Sleep on, though morning's early light across thy curtain beams,
Thy mother's voice perhaps no more shall mingle with thy dreams.
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“I would within thy child-like heart there yet might rest a trace
Of distant fields, of early home, and of thy father's face;
And loving thoughts of me, my son, might ever there remain
Among the few things left of earth, that it might yet retain.
Of distant fields, of early home, and of thy father's face;
And loving thoughts of me, my son, might ever there remain
Among the few things left of earth, that it might yet retain.
“But if such thoughts might wean thy heart from Him thou serv'st above,
Ah! then forget thy father's face, forget thy mother's love;
Forget Mount Ephraim's hoary head, where mists and vapours meet,
Forget his forest-cumber'd heights and vineyard-trellis'd feet.
Ah! then forget thy father's face, forget thy mother's love;
Forget Mount Ephraim's hoary head, where mists and vapours meet,
Forget his forest-cumber'd heights and vineyard-trellis'd feet.
“As birds their helpless offspring tend with never-wearied care,
Search for their sake the gloomy woods and skim the pathless air;
And then, their spreading pinions grown, deserting, give them o'er,
Forsaken, through the upper fields alone to sing and soar—
Search for their sake the gloomy woods and skim the pathless air;
And then, their spreading pinions grown, deserting, give them o'er,
Forsaken, through the upper fields alone to sing and soar—
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“So have I tended thee—but now my work of love is done,
And I must leave thee to His care who feedeth them, my son.
I must forsake, though not forget—to thee 'tis given to rise
Now, like the birds, desert thy nest, and seek thy kindred skies.
And I must leave thee to His care who feedeth them, my son.
I must forsake, though not forget—to thee 'tis given to rise
Now, like the birds, desert thy nest, and seek thy kindred skies.
“What though forgetfulness should come, to blot me from thy breast,
In spirit still thy mother's hand upon thy head may rest.
Lift up thy heart to thy true home, thy Father's house above,
Thou that art mine no more to keep, but still my own to love!”
In spirit still thy mother's hand upon thy head may rest.
Lift up thy heart to thy true home, thy Father's house above,
Thou that art mine no more to keep, but still my own to love!”
Among the gathering throng
With the new-waken'd child they pass'd along;
Soon at the shrine of God, in faith drawn near,
With offering and oblation to appear.
The parting hour the father's heart oppress'd,
But peace had visited the mother's breast.
With loving eyes that wander'd o'er his face,
Gently she led him to the Holy place,
And brought him where, the daily offering made,
The aged priest before the altar stay'd.
Meekly and quietly her tale she told:
“Let thy soul live!—Behold!
I am the woman that stood by thee here,
And pray'd—my God to me bow'd down his ear.
Here I my prayer and my petition made,
And for this child I pray'd.
With the new-waken'd child they pass'd along;
Soon at the shrine of God, in faith drawn near,
With offering and oblation to appear.
The parting hour the father's heart oppress'd,
But peace had visited the mother's breast.
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Gently she led him to the Holy place,
And brought him where, the daily offering made,
The aged priest before the altar stay'd.
Meekly and quietly her tale she told:
“Let thy soul live!—Behold!
I am the woman that stood by thee here,
And pray'd—my God to me bow'd down his ear.
Here I my prayer and my petition made,
And for this child I pray'd.
“My heart rejoiceth in the Lord, who doth exalt my head,
My mouth is fill'd with praise, and low in dust my foes are laid;
In thy salvation I rejoice, thy holy works I see,
Beside thee there is none, O God! nor any rock like thee.
My mouth is fill'd with praise, and low in dust my foes are laid;
In thy salvation I rejoice, thy holy works I see,
Beside thee there is none, O God! nor any rock like thee.
“Thou only refuge in despair, and succour in distress,
To thee with earnest thanks I come thy faithful name to bless;
O let the offering of my hand be pleasant in thine eyes;
Thou God who didst receive my vow, accept my sacrifice.
To thee with earnest thanks I come thy faithful name to bless;
O let the offering of my hand be pleasant in thine eyes;
Thou God who didst receive my vow, accept my sacrifice.
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“Father I bring thee back thine own, and here forgiveness crave,
If once thy gift had well-nigh won my heart from thee who gave.
O let such wish be mine no more to keep the child awhile,
To keep him from his Father's courts, and from his Father's smile.
If once thy gift had well-nigh won my heart from thee who gave.
O let such wish be mine no more to keep the child awhile,
To keep him from his Father's courts, and from his Father's smile.
“O, hope of Israel! what is this that like a dream doth rise,
This vision faintly shadow'd forth that floats before mine eyes;
Sing in your spheres, ye sons of God,—thou earth, arise and shine,
A woman to these courts shall bring, a greater gift than mine!
This vision faintly shadow'd forth that floats before mine eyes;
Sing in your spheres, ye sons of God,—thou earth, arise and shine,
A woman to these courts shall bring, a greater gift than mine!
“My son, for whom with bitter tears I wept and wrestled long,
I leave thee, record of my vow, and witness of my song;
Through life, for thee, by prayer obtain'd, I'll lift my voice in praise;
Walk thou in all thy Father's laws, and love his holy ways.
I leave thee, record of my vow, and witness of my song;
Through life, for thee, by prayer obtain'd, I'll lift my voice in praise;
Walk thou in all thy Father's laws, and love his holy ways.
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“For thou wilt need no mother's care, nor mother's fond caress,
The God who gave thee, will protect—who takes thee back, will bless.
Now on the threshold of thy home thine infant foot hath trod,
I bring thee where I sought thee first—I leave thee with thy God!”
The God who gave thee, will protect—who takes thee back, will bless.
Now on the threshold of thy home thine infant foot hath trod,
I bring thee where I sought thee first—I leave thee with thy God!”
So did she sing—now lost and past away
Is the pure shrine to which she came to pray;
Now from its courts no songs of praise ascend,
Nor tribes of worshippers towards it tend.
God! who once dwelt with man on Shiloh's plain,
When wilt thou raise it from the dust again?
That song of praise no echo finds below—
Sad tears of sorrow flow
From them who worship there, who wail and fast,
Weeping and mourning for its glory past.
Is the pure shrine to which she came to pray;
Now from its courts no songs of praise ascend,
Nor tribes of worshippers towards it tend.
God! who once dwelt with man on Shiloh's plain,
When wilt thou raise it from the dust again?
That song of praise no echo finds below—
Sad tears of sorrow flow
From them who worship there, who wail and fast,
Weeping and mourning for its glory past.
But in a purer temple rear'd afar
Beyond the morning star,
A place prepar'd, the glory of all lands—
A house not made with hands—
Is mingling sweetly with their sacred mirth
The song of triumph she began on earth,
When first her God upon her sorrow smil'd:
Its notes are echoed on that peaceful shore,
Where long ago they met to part no more,
The mother and her child.
Beyond the morning star,
A place prepar'd, the glory of all lands—
A house not made with hands—
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The song of triumph she began on earth,
When first her God upon her sorrow smil'd:
Its notes are echoed on that peaceful shore,
Where long ago they met to part no more,
The mother and her child.
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THE DEATH OF MOSES ON MOUNT NEBO.
And Moses was alone: his foot had pass'd
For ever from the haunts of men, his eyes
Had look'd their last upon the tented plain!
For ever from the haunts of men, his eyes
Had look'd their last upon the tented plain!
The mountain battlements, its ribs of stone
Were round about him, the eternal rocks
Savage and wild rear'd up their barren spires,
And shrouding vapours, like a billowy main,
Heav'd their dim masses up against his seat,
And hid the warm earth from his yearning soul.
Unheard of him the voice of weeping rose
From the forsaken multitude—unseen
Amid the sunbeams far beneath his feet
Hung in a floating veil of fragrance pure
The incense of the evening sacrifice!
Were round about him, the eternal rocks
Savage and wild rear'd up their barren spires,
And shrouding vapours, like a billowy main,
Heav'd their dim masses up against his seat,
And hid the warm earth from his yearning soul.
Unheard of him the voice of weeping rose
From the forsaken multitude—unseen
Amid the sunbeams far beneath his feet
Hung in a floating veil of fragrance pure
The incense of the evening sacrifice!
He sate alone: and he said, “Here am I—
Lord God of Israel, on the mountain hoar,
Shut out from sight and from communion sweet
With them that are my fellows—I am come
To meet with Thee, Invisible! sustain
Death all unveil'd to thought, by passion dimm'd
Or slow decay, or lengthen'd pilgrimage.
O Thou Eternal! How shall I sustain
Thy terrors manifold, Thy voice endure,
Uncloth'd upon, unshelter'd by this frame?
How shall I see Thy face, nor fall away,
Appall'd with light, beyond the utmost star,
And shrink into the nothing whence I came?
Lord God of Israel, on the mountain hoar,
168
With them that are my fellows—I am come
To meet with Thee, Invisible! sustain
Death all unveil'd to thought, by passion dimm'd
Or slow decay, or lengthen'd pilgrimage.
O Thou Eternal! How shall I sustain
Thy terrors manifold, Thy voice endure,
Uncloth'd upon, unshelter'd by this frame?
How shall I see Thy face, nor fall away,
Appall'd with light, beyond the utmost star,
And shrink into the nothing whence I came?
“Yet, if Thou wilt be gracious, if Thine ear
Is to my voice attent, and if my soul
Be written in Thy Book,—by all Thy care,
The cloudy pillar, whereby Thou didst guide
Thy people journeying through this wilderness—
By the dropp'd manna round about their tents,
And by the smitten rock—nay more—by all,
Favour laid up for cycles unreveal'd,
Wrapp'd in the dusk of yet unfolded Time—
Give me this token—breathe away these clouds
Which hide the green earth's bosom; let me see
Blue Jordan wind,—on his desirèd shores
Behold the land forbidden to my foot,
The glorious land where Thou wilt set Thy Name,
The heritage of Israel!”
Is to my voice attent, and if my soul
Be written in Thy Book,—by all Thy care,
The cloudy pillar, whereby Thou didst guide
Thy people journeying through this wilderness—
By the dropp'd manna round about their tents,
And by the smitten rock—nay more—by all,
Favour laid up for cycles unreveal'd,
Wrapp'd in the dusk of yet unfolded Time—
Give me this token—breathe away these clouds
Which hide the green earth's bosom; let me see
Blue Jordan wind,—on his desirèd shores
169
The glorious land where Thou wilt set Thy Name,
The heritage of Israel!”
Then arose
The slumb'ring breeze, and pin'd among the caves
And hollows of the rock—then swept the sea
Of floating vapours upward, till display'd,
As by the rending of a snow-white veil,
The smiling land beneath them lay reveal'd:
Green, silent, glowing in the sunset gleams
It spread into the distance, waving fields
And valleys yellow with the ripening corn,
And vineyards on the hills, and forests thick
The mountain sides ascending. Farther yet
Stretch'd the wide landscape—to the swelling ridge
Of Lebanon with all its cedars crown'd,
To plains Sidonian and the Tyrian shore,
To the blue borders of the utmost sea.
The slumb'ring breeze, and pin'd among the caves
And hollows of the rock—then swept the sea
Of floating vapours upward, till display'd,
As by the rending of a snow-white veil,
The smiling land beneath them lay reveal'd:
Green, silent, glowing in the sunset gleams
It spread into the distance, waving fields
And valleys yellow with the ripening corn,
And vineyards on the hills, and forests thick
The mountain sides ascending. Farther yet
Stretch'd the wide landscape—to the swelling ridge
Of Lebanon with all its cedars crown'd,
To plains Sidonian and the Tyrian shore,
To the blue borders of the utmost sea.
And Moses saw with eyes undimm'd—beheld
The winding river, near whose rushy marge
The tribes by number lay,—with morning dawn
To cross the tide:—And from his heart a pray'r
Ascended for their weal;—for he had known
Their weakness,—he had pleaded for them long,
And in his spirit echoed still the sound
Of mourning, that grew fainter and more faint,
As up the mountain side that day he came,
Knowing his hands which he had lifted up,
For evermore had ceas'd from blessing Israel.
The winding river, near whose rushy marge
The tribes by number lay,—with morning dawn
To cross the tide:—And from his heart a pray'r
Ascended for their weal;—for he had known
170
And in his spirit echoed still the sound
Of mourning, that grew fainter and more faint,
As up the mountain side that day he came,
Knowing his hands which he had lifted up,
For evermore had ceas'd from blessing Israel.
The Prophet gaz'd—but not with earthly eyes
Alone, though earthly eyes of age undimm'd
Receiv'd the wondrous vision—to his soul
Futurity came forth, and lent her hues,
Her glories and her unimagin'd woes,
To the far-spreading plains and swelling hills.
Alone, though earthly eyes of age undimm'd
Receiv'd the wondrous vision—to his soul
Futurity came forth, and lent her hues,
Her glories and her unimagin'd woes,
To the far-spreading plains and swelling hills.
And Moses saw upon the lofty rocks
Of Zion, a fair city rise and lift
Her pinnacles and domes: around them drawn
Towers of defence, and battlements of pride:
And he beheld—till in her midst arose
The temple of the Lord—its golden gates—
Those walls whereon no tool was lifted up,
Its portals fill'd with waiting multitudes
He saw—and with its glory was content;
The cedar-roof—the vessels of pure gold—
The Ark o'ershadow'd with mysterious wings—
While in the courts without, for ever rose,
With praise of ministering Levites sung,
The smoke of victims slain, towards the skies.
Of Zion, a fair city rise and lift
Her pinnacles and domes: around them drawn
Towers of defence, and battlements of pride:
And he beheld—till in her midst arose
The temple of the Lord—its golden gates—
Those walls whereon no tool was lifted up,
Its portals fill'd with waiting multitudes
He saw—and with its glory was content;
The cedar-roof—the vessels of pure gold—
171
While in the courts without, for ever rose,
With praise of ministering Levites sung,
The smoke of victims slain, towards the skies.
And Moses said—“The Lord accept thy vows,
Thou mighty nation, and increase thy stores.”
Thou mighty nation, and increase thy stores.”
And he beheld again, and underneath
The Holy place, in darken'd chambers dim,
Stood symbols of unholy things, and names
Of unclean spirits—Isis, with the moon
Her shadowy crescent, on her forehead set,
Weeping her lost Osiris, and the sign
Of great Astarte, the Assyrian's queen,
And Hera with her silver snakes,—the names
Of all the hosts of Heaven—and nigh them burn'd
Offering of incense, and the priests of God
Stood, ev'ry man his censer in his hand.
The Holy place, in darken'd chambers dim,
Stood symbols of unholy things, and names
Of unclean spirits—Isis, with the moon
Her shadowy crescent, on her forehead set,
Weeping her lost Osiris, and the sign
Of great Astarte, the Assyrian's queen,
And Hera with her silver snakes,—the names
Of all the hosts of Heaven—and nigh them burn'd
Offering of incense, and the priests of God
Stood, ev'ry man his censer in his hand.
And Moses bow'd his face upon his hands,
And sigh'd—“O Lord, forgive!”—And he beheld
The riches of his nation—flocks and herds
Unnumber'd for their multitude, and corn
And wine and oil and precious woods and gold—
But as he look'd, behold they took thereof,
And fashion'd golden calves, and set them up,
And all the tribes went forth to worship them!
And sigh'd—“O Lord, forgive!”—And he beheld
The riches of his nation—flocks and herds
Unnumber'd for their multitude, and corn
172
But as he look'd, behold they took thereof,
And fashion'd golden calves, and set them up,
And all the tribes went forth to worship them!
Then he beheld the Prophets going forth
With signs and wonders, yet they heeded not,
But multiplied their idols in the groves,
Crying, and stretching out their hands on high,
“O Baal, hear us!”—And he lifted up
His voice, and wept. Again the vision wax'd
Distinct: encamp'd between the distant hills,
And from the mountain masses gathering,
Chariot and horseman and a mighty host
With gleaming spears, and flashing swords appear'd;
Against the Holy City they came forth,
And as the changes of a dream, so came
Swift changes over it; the goodly towers
Before them fell, the massy gates gave way,
Its glorious beauty was laid waste, its pride
Soil'd in the dust, its riches all despoil'd,
And alien hands from the most holy place
Tore down its carvèd work of cedar, laid
Rude hands upon its fretted gold, and bore
Its sacred vessels to a heathen shrine!
With signs and wonders, yet they heeded not,
But multiplied their idols in the groves,
Crying, and stretching out their hands on high,
“O Baal, hear us!”—And he lifted up
His voice, and wept. Again the vision wax'd
Distinct: encamp'd between the distant hills,
And from the mountain masses gathering,
Chariot and horseman and a mighty host
With gleaming spears, and flashing swords appear'd;
Against the Holy City they came forth,
And as the changes of a dream, so came
Swift changes over it; the goodly towers
Before them fell, the massy gates gave way,
Its glorious beauty was laid waste, its pride
Soil'd in the dust, its riches all despoil'd,
And alien hands from the most holy place
Tore down its carvèd work of cedar, laid
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Its sacred vessels to a heathen shrine!
And Moses said—“Deliver them, O Lord,
For yet they are Thy people!”
For yet they are Thy people!”
Then there fell
A shadow over Canaan;—indistinct
And dim the vision seem'd, with sighs confus'd
Of war, and trouble of contending tribes,
Of oracles forgotten, and of sins
Crying for vengeance!—The fair city stood
Fair as of old, on the eternal hills,
And from its sacred courts ascended still
Incense and off'ring:—but no longer hung
The cloud within its precincts, and the voice
That spake between the Cherubim was dumb.
Dimness hung over all, and disbelief
Spread brooding like a canopy, to shut
The sight of Heav'n, and steep the pray'rless crowd
In its unhallow'd air;—there was a sound
Of scoffing, that spake coldly unreprov'd—
“Where is the promise of His coming?—Lo!
All things continue fix'd and bound of old!”
A shadow over Canaan;—indistinct
And dim the vision seem'd, with sighs confus'd
Of war, and trouble of contending tribes,
Of oracles forgotten, and of sins
Crying for vengeance!—The fair city stood
Fair as of old, on the eternal hills,
And from its sacred courts ascended still
Incense and off'ring:—but no longer hung
The cloud within its precincts, and the voice
That spake between the Cherubim was dumb.
Dimness hung over all, and disbelief
Spread brooding like a canopy, to shut
The sight of Heav'n, and steep the pray'rless crowd
In its unhallow'd air;—there was a sound
Of scoffing, that spake coldly unreprov'd—
“Where is the promise of His coming?—Lo!
All things continue fix'd and bound of old!”
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And Moses cried—“O lost and sunk too low
For thought to fathom—O cold worshippers—
O foolish nation, mockers vain, what care,
What remedy can reach to heal them now?”
For thought to fathom—O cold worshippers—
O foolish nation, mockers vain, what care,
What remedy can reach to heal them now?”
And as he spake, ONE lifted up His voice,
And cried, till far and near the mountains shook—
The dimness fled away, “Deliver them,
For I have found a ransom!”
And cried, till far and near the mountains shook—
The dimness fled away, “Deliver them,
For I have found a ransom!”
After pause,
The Prophet lifted up his face, to look
Upon the dread Messiah, on the King
Of mighty Israel,—but behold, no king,
No conqueror went forth, no ruler sway'd
The sceptre of his people, but ONE stood
Upon a mountain, and they brought to Him
The lame, the maim'd, the blind, and on them laid
He holy hands, and they were whole. His face
Was calmer than th' eternal vaulted sky,
His brow majestic, more than earthly soul
Of earth alone could stamp it, and His words
Pass'd human reach of tenderness; He cried,
And the green hills of Canaan echo'd long
The love-begotten strain—“Come unto Me
All ye that labour and are heavy-laden,
And I will give you rest!”
The Prophet lifted up his face, to look
Upon the dread Messiah, on the King
Of mighty Israel,—but behold, no king,
No conqueror went forth, no ruler sway'd
The sceptre of his people, but ONE stood
Upon a mountain, and they brought to Him
The lame, the maim'd, the blind, and on them laid
He holy hands, and they were whole. His face
Was calmer than th' eternal vaulted sky,
His brow majestic, more than earthly soul
Of earth alone could stamp it, and His words
Pass'd human reach of tenderness; He cried,
And the green hills of Canaan echo'd long
175
All ye that labour and are heavy-laden,
And I will give you rest!”
Most blessèd sound,
And happy day, most favour'd company!
So long he gaz'd, as one who once forlorn,
Finds assur'd peace and safety without end!
And happy day, most favour'd company!
So long he gaz'd, as one who once forlorn,
Finds assur'd peace and safety without end!
Then the bless'd vision chang'd, and he beheld
The God-Man under waving palm-boughs high
Down-riding to Jerusalem, around,
And in his train a countless multitude,
Crying “Hosanna,” and with garments rich,
And leaves his pathway strewing, but no look
Of triumph mark'd he on Messiah's face,
But rather in the vision, wondrous pain
His aspect dimm'd, a burd'ning weight of woe,
And a foreshadow'd agony; strange thoughts,
Deep wond'ring, flash'd upon the Seer's soul
With chill'd misgiving, but he cast away
That pang, and cried “What faithless questioning,
Soul, hath beset thee? as if He who comes
To reign, could find usurpers on His throne,
Or finding, could not hurl them with the strength
Of His right hand, to outermost perdition—
Should He, if haply could rebellion rise
(Which yet methinks it could not)—should He reign
The less, or suffer damage? Nay! His throne
He shall establish, in the pleasant land
He shall teach peace! Methinks ev'n now a voice
Speaketh within me thus: ‘Thy throne, O God,
Is, and shall be for ever,’ God and Man,
Vision most sure, though future, yet distinct,—
Who shall be, and shall hear Hosannas glad—
I pray Thee, in Thy day remember me,
Though cover'd in the dust: nay, though my voice
From dust Hosannas cannot cry, look back
Into the past—behold! upon this rock,
I dying lift Hosannas to Thy name—
Look back—and in the dust, remember me!”
The God-Man under waving palm-boughs high
Down-riding to Jerusalem, around,
And in his train a countless multitude,
Crying “Hosanna,” and with garments rich,
And leaves his pathway strewing, but no look
Of triumph mark'd he on Messiah's face,
But rather in the vision, wondrous pain
His aspect dimm'd, a burd'ning weight of woe,
And a foreshadow'd agony; strange thoughts,
Deep wond'ring, flash'd upon the Seer's soul
With chill'd misgiving, but he cast away
That pang, and cried “What faithless questioning,
Soul, hath beset thee? as if He who comes
To reign, could find usurpers on His throne,
176
Of His right hand, to outermost perdition—
Should He, if haply could rebellion rise
(Which yet methinks it could not)—should He reign
The less, or suffer damage? Nay! His throne
He shall establish, in the pleasant land
He shall teach peace! Methinks ev'n now a voice
Speaketh within me thus: ‘Thy throne, O God,
Is, and shall be for ever,’ God and Man,
Vision most sure, though future, yet distinct,—
Who shall be, and shall hear Hosannas glad—
I pray Thee, in Thy day remember me,
Though cover'd in the dust: nay, though my voice
From dust Hosannas cannot cry, look back
Into the past—behold! upon this rock,
I dying lift Hosannas to Thy name—
Look back—and in the dust, remember me!”
But while he spake, a deeper shadow fell
Upon the hills of Canaan, and a veil
Of dimness, greater than had e'er before
Hung brooding on the city, compass'd it:
Dark, dark the scene, and trembling seiz'd the soul
Of him who gaz'd—confus'd and broken sounds,
With intervals of horror and of fear,
Came like accusing spirits to his seat,
And ever and anon athwart the gloom,
While the earth trembled and the stars went in,
Flash'd momentary visions of One crown'd
With thorns, and cover'd with a purple robe,
Thus mockingly ador'd. So still he gaz'd
Faint with a dying hope. He look'd, and lo!
In murky darkness hung the victim Christ,
The Hope of Israel! Hope vain now indeed
And forfeit past redemption—look'd and saw
His own, reviling, and the heathen's spear
Wound his expiring frame!
He died! The Seer beheld, and bow'd his head,
Crying “Undone, undone!” The clouds came up
Veiling the fields of Canaan—on the Mount
They rose and shrouded Him in darkness deep
And fearful, as the darkness of his soul!
Upon the hills of Canaan, and a veil
Of dimness, greater than had e'er before
Hung brooding on the city, compass'd it:
Dark, dark the scene, and trembling seiz'd the soul
Of him who gaz'd—confus'd and broken sounds,
177
Came like accusing spirits to his seat,
And ever and anon athwart the gloom,
While the earth trembled and the stars went in,
Flash'd momentary visions of One crown'd
With thorns, and cover'd with a purple robe,
Thus mockingly ador'd. So still he gaz'd
Faint with a dying hope. He look'd, and lo!
In murky darkness hung the victim Christ,
The Hope of Israel! Hope vain now indeed
And forfeit past redemption—look'd and saw
His own, reviling, and the heathen's spear
Wound his expiring frame!
He died! The Seer beheld, and bow'd his head,
Crying “Undone, undone!” The clouds came up
Veiling the fields of Canaan—on the Mount
They rose and shrouded Him in darkness deep
And fearful, as the darkness of his soul!
And he said, “O my Nation, whom I led
With painful steps athwart this wilderness,
Whose gain of this green land hath made it light
To me, no foot upon its fields to set—
Is all then lost? Yea, hast thou slain thy King?
Who now shall plead for pardon? God, my God,
Let me not die—or let this vision fade—
Erase it from my soul that thus I saw
Godhead dissever'd from Humanity!
I know my sins were present at that deed,
The tempter spirits cry it in mine ears:
They rise, they witness! O! to die, to die,
With this new guilt upon my spirit, spare—
Yet wherefore spare? nay, lift thy hand, and strike,
For I have slain the Lord of Glory! Strike!
God, I submit, entreating not, I bare
My forehead to the blow! How didst thou die,
Messiah! Prince! Thou didst not cry nor strive.
‘As a man falleth before wicked men,
So fellest thou!’ Alas! this dimness grows,
It covers me! O Death, how dark thou art—
O God, how far from me! The clouds are round,
Above, about me! I am left alone!
Egypt, thy days of darkness had a hope
That made them lightsome, to this gloom compar'd!
Eternal! Whom I talk'd with face to face,
Unconscious of this crime which blindeth hope—
If from the deeps of blackness thou wilt hear,
If there be hope in darkness to be felt—
Here I beseech thee, as I once besought
With mortal eyes thy glory to behold,
Show me thy Love, O God, before I die!”
With painful steps athwart this wilderness,
Whose gain of this green land hath made it light
To me, no foot upon its fields to set—
Is all then lost? Yea, hast thou slain thy King?
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Let me not die—or let this vision fade—
Erase it from my soul that thus I saw
Godhead dissever'd from Humanity!
I know my sins were present at that deed,
The tempter spirits cry it in mine ears:
They rise, they witness! O! to die, to die,
With this new guilt upon my spirit, spare—
Yet wherefore spare? nay, lift thy hand, and strike,
For I have slain the Lord of Glory! Strike!
God, I submit, entreating not, I bare
My forehead to the blow! How didst thou die,
Messiah! Prince! Thou didst not cry nor strive.
‘As a man falleth before wicked men,
So fellest thou!’ Alas! this dimness grows,
It covers me! O Death, how dark thou art—
O God, how far from me! The clouds are round,
Above, about me! I am left alone!
Egypt, thy days of darkness had a hope
That made them lightsome, to this gloom compar'd!
Eternal! Whom I talk'd with face to face,
Unconscious of this crime which blindeth hope—
If from the deeps of blackness thou wilt hear,
If there be hope in darkness to be felt—
Here I beseech thee, as I once besought
179
Show me thy Love, O God, before I die!”
“One transfigur'd! In the cloud
Wherefore dost thou stand,
With a golden censer in thy hand?
Folded in his shroud,
Saw I one like thee entombèd lie,
Having breath'd out his soul in strife and agony!
Wherefore dost thou stand,
With a golden censer in thy hand?
Folded in his shroud,
Saw I one like thee entombèd lie,
Having breath'd out his soul in strife and agony!
“Who art thou, Lord?
On thy brow, as from the dead restor'd,
Godhead and Manhood meet,
Print of nails is on thy hands and feet—
Who art thou, Lord?
I know thee not, yet dimly I divine,
If one from death could rise,
That thou art He!
From beneath thy feet the thunders roll,
Love immortal beameth from thine eyes,
Foreshadow'd mercies shine
In the glory that enshroudeth thee!
Art thou the Love of God? and dost thou stand
Lifting thy wounded hand,
Interceding for my guilty soul?
Didst thou, tabernacled in this clay,
Breathe upon the cross thy life away?
Then, of thy great fulness to me give—
Let me, by thy dying, live!
On thy brow, as from the dead restor'd,
Godhead and Manhood meet,
Print of nails is on thy hands and feet—
Who art thou, Lord?
I know thee not, yet dimly I divine,
If one from death could rise,
That thou art He!
From beneath thy feet the thunders roll,
Love immortal beameth from thine eyes,
Foreshadow'd mercies shine
In the glory that enshroudeth thee!
Art thou the Love of God? and dost thou stand
Lifting thy wounded hand,
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Didst thou, tabernacled in this clay,
Breathe upon the cross thy life away?
Then, of thy great fulness to me give—
Let me, by thy dying, live!
“Love of God! and dost thou not upbraid,
Though the shadow of a thorny crown
Doth never from thy forehead fade—
Though for sin of man the awful frown
Of wrath, on thee came down—
Though among thine own betray'd,
Dost thou live again, and intercede?
Then is not hope extinct—
Since in brotherhood with manhood link'd
Thou dost stand before the throne,
Unoppress'd with splendour like thine own,
Unamaz'd with light, before Him plead
For Adam's fall'n seed!
Yea, I hear a voice within,
Saying, ‘Know, O man, thy sin,
God's free bounty shall not countervail,
Greater than their lost estate through Me shall mortals win:
Be accusing spirits henceforth dumb,
Minist'ring angels cry “All hail!”
Lo, I come!’
Though the shadow of a thorny crown
Doth never from thy forehead fade—
Though for sin of man the awful frown
Of wrath, on thee came down—
Though among thine own betray'd,
Dost thou live again, and intercede?
Then is not hope extinct—
Since in brotherhood with manhood link'd
Thou dost stand before the throne,
Unoppress'd with splendour like thine own,
Unamaz'd with light, before Him plead
For Adam's fall'n seed!
Yea, I hear a voice within,
Saying, ‘Know, O man, thy sin,
God's free bounty shall not countervail,
Greater than their lost estate through Me shall mortals win:
Be accusing spirits henceforth dumb,
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Lo, I come!’
“Vision, ere thy day reveal'd,
I see thy reign arise—
Wond'rous Love! I know thou wilt despise
Shame and spitting, for the promise seal'd
By the oath of Him who cannot lie,
‘Through thy death shall death and sorrow die!’
Thou hast many crowns upon thy head,
Greatly shall thy kingdom spread,
Many waters flow beneath thy feet,
At thy throne, O God, shall gath'ring nations meet.
I see thy reign arise—
Wond'rous Love! I know thou wilt despise
Shame and spitting, for the promise seal'd
By the oath of Him who cannot lie,
‘Through thy death shall death and sorrow die!’
Thou hast many crowns upon thy head,
Greatly shall thy kingdom spread,
Many waters flow beneath thy feet,
At thy throne, O God, shall gath'ring nations meet.
“Longer needeth not delay—
Love of God, take now my life away!
I am ready! let this breath
Fade into desirèd death!
Yea! and those at my withdrawal weeping,
Lo! I leave them to thy keeping!
Greater love thou hast than mine.
Will their welfare.—Love divine,
Overbear their sin, their spirits save,
Let thy will upraise them from the grave,
Let them waken to thy praise,
Glorious from their slumber in the dust—
Soul and body leave I to thy trust,
Till the ending of the days!
Nigh their tents the waves of Jordan swell,
They shall cross the stream with dawning light—
I shall be with Thee this night,
And for both shall all be well!
Love of God, take now my life away!
I am ready! let this breath
Fade into desirèd death!
Yea! and those at my withdrawal weeping,
Lo! I leave them to thy keeping!
Greater love thou hast than mine.
Will their welfare.—Love divine,
Overbear their sin, their spirits save,
Let thy will upraise them from the grave,
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Glorious from their slumber in the dust—
Soul and body leave I to thy trust,
Till the ending of the days!
Nigh their tents the waves of Jordan swell,
They shall cross the stream with dawning light—
I shall be with Thee this night,
And for both shall all be well!
“Comest Thou nearer? yet more near?
Perfect love doth cast out fear!
Draw my spirit with thy beck'ning hand,
For mine eyes have seen thy promis'd land,
From the weary clay my soul release—
I would enter into peace!”
Perfect love doth cast out fear!
Draw my spirit with thy beck'ning hand,
For mine eyes have seen thy promis'd land,
From the weary clay my soul release—
I would enter into peace!”
And Moses died. The moon was bright above,
The plain was still! but on the mountain head,
Unwitness'd of the sleeping multitudes,
Was warfare such as Spirits wage, and strife
That shook its rugged sides. Up from the earth
Where night was thickest, even from the midst
Of Israel's tents, rose out a clouded Form
Most like material Darkness—wander'd forth
Throughout the camp, and folded evil wings
Across a thunder-ruin'd countenance.
The plain was still! but on the mountain head,
Unwitness'd of the sleeping multitudes,
Was warfare such as Spirits wage, and strife
That shook its rugged sides. Up from the earth
Where night was thickest, even from the midst
Of Israel's tents, rose out a clouded Form
183
Throughout the camp, and folded evil wings
Across a thunder-ruin'd countenance.
Slowly, as one asham'd, wherever shades
Lay deep, the fall'n Greatness took its way,
And up the dark side of the mountain came
E'en to its hoary summit—standing forth
At length in the clear light, with hopeless eyes
Fix'd on the sleeping saint.
Lay deep, the fall'n Greatness took its way,
And up the dark side of the mountain came
E'en to its hoary summit—standing forth
At length in the clear light, with hopeless eyes
Fix'd on the sleeping saint.
But e'er the touch
Of the lost Spirit could defile that clay,
Swift as a sunbeam, purer than the light,
One from above descended—thunder roll'd
And shook the plain; the pale blank moon went in,
And darkness veil'd the Spirit-Combatants—
The mountain quak'd, and ever downward roll'd
The rifted rocks. The sleepers in the camp
Awoke and pray'd: but Israel's tribes beheld
Nor gleaming spear nor fiery flashing sword:
Nor heard by mortal anger, all unmov'd,
The heav'nly Angel's pure and stern reproof,
“The Lord rebuke Thee!”
Of the lost Spirit could defile that clay,
Swift as a sunbeam, purer than the light,
One from above descended—thunder roll'd
And shook the plain; the pale blank moon went in,
And darkness veil'd the Spirit-Combatants—
The mountain quak'd, and ever downward roll'd
The rifted rocks. The sleepers in the camp
Awoke and pray'd: but Israel's tribes beheld
Nor gleaming spear nor fiery flashing sword:
Nor heard by mortal anger, all unmov'd,
The heav'nly Angel's pure and stern reproof,
“The Lord rebuke Thee!”
184
THE SHUNAMITE.
I. PART I.
“And he said, ‘Wherefore wilt thou go to him to-day? It
is neither new moon nor Sabbath.’ And she said, ‘It shall
be well!’”—2 Kings, iv. 23.
“It shall be well!”
She sent and answer'd him —“It shall be well”—
E'en though her heart o'erfraught
With love and agony and burning thought,
With all a mother's bitter grief might swell,
She sent and answer'd him, “It shall be well!”
She sent and answer'd him —“It shall be well”—
E'en though her heart o'erfraught
With love and agony and burning thought,
With all a mother's bitter grief might swell,
She sent and answer'd him, “It shall be well!”
What could that message mean?
It did not tell how death had come between
Him and the joy of harvest; could there rest
Still in her heaving breast
Hope that the child would waken? that his head
Would turn upon the pillow of that bed—
When the light air came in, that he would sigh—
Feeling it lift his hair so wooingly?—
No! for she left him: for she left alone
The silent form, from which the life was flown:—
Who the deep workings of her soul may tell?
Mysterious words! she said, “It shall be well!”
It did not tell how death had come between
Him and the joy of harvest; could there rest
Still in her heaving breast
Hope that the child would waken? that his head
Would turn upon the pillow of that bed—
185
Feeling it lift his hair so wooingly?—
No! for she left him: for she left alone
The silent form, from which the life was flown:—
Who the deep workings of her soul may tell?
Mysterious words! she said, “It shall be well!”
What shall be well?
His aged father's heart, when he shall call
For his sweet child? when turn'd at even-fall
To his own roof, from fields with harvest white,
No foot shall meet him in the soft dim light,
But he shall hear the mourning women's cry
Of death and desolation? and his eye
Shall fall upon the face for which they wail?
No! for it shall be pale!
What then? thy gentle heart, kind Shunamite?
No! for thy sole delight
Hath sobb'd himself to sleep upon thy breast,
His dreamless sleep. Then let him take his rest!
Long did thine arms in hope his limbs enfold,
But now they have grown cold!
His aged father's heart, when he shall call
For his sweet child? when turn'd at even-fall
To his own roof, from fields with harvest white,
No foot shall meet him in the soft dim light,
But he shall hear the mourning women's cry
Of death and desolation? and his eye
Shall fall upon the face for which they wail?
No! for it shall be pale!
What then? thy gentle heart, kind Shunamite?
No! for thy sole delight
Hath sobb'd himself to sleep upon thy breast,
His dreamless sleep. Then let him take his rest!
Long did thine arms in hope his limbs enfold,
But now they have grown cold!
Who sitteth in the mount apart? his gaze,
Dream-like, upon the far blue landscape stays—
Green slopes and harvest fields and pastures fair—
But his thoughts are not there!
Across the darken'd mirror of his soul
Thick mists obscuring roll:
And as, when Eli had laid down to sleep,
In midnight silence deep,
Before the ark the lamp of God burn'd dim
Shaded with golden wings of Cherubim—
So in the temple of his heart, though nigh
Might Angel-watchers in his pathway lie,
No gleams of light with radiance pure and sweet
Reveal'd the brightness of the Mercy-seat:
As in the hour of midnight gloom, with him
The lamp of God burn'd dim!
Dream-like, upon the far blue landscape stays—
186
But his thoughts are not there!
Across the darken'd mirror of his soul
Thick mists obscuring roll:
And as, when Eli had laid down to sleep,
In midnight silence deep,
Before the ark the lamp of God burn'd dim
Shaded with golden wings of Cherubim—
So in the temple of his heart, though nigh
Might Angel-watchers in his pathway lie,
No gleams of light with radiance pure and sweet
Reveal'd the brightness of the Mercy-seat:
As in the hour of midnight gloom, with him
The lamp of God burn'd dim!
Haply prophetic visions, indistinct
With wailing voices sounds of trouble link'd—
Haply a shadowing forth of wasting years,
Captivity and tears,
To come upon his nation, or yet more,
It might be that before
His inward sense the “Man of Sorrows” rose,
And to him wond'ring did the wounds disclose,
That pierc'd his hands and feet—his soul might see,
Shadows of that last night's deep agony;
Might see One lowly in the garden bend—
And words of wond'rous meaning might extend
To him that search'd what tidings these might bring,
Fore-runners of what pure and holy thing—
Yes! to his soul might reach that bitter cry—
“What, is it nothing, O ye passers by?”—
“Nothing to you these thorns?—This cursed tree?—
Behold—Behold and see
If there be any sorrow like to mine?—
Man's guilt and wrath Divine!”
With wailing voices sounds of trouble link'd—
Haply a shadowing forth of wasting years,
Captivity and tears,
To come upon his nation, or yet more,
It might be that before
His inward sense the “Man of Sorrows” rose,
And to him wond'ring did the wounds disclose,
187
Shadows of that last night's deep agony;
Might see One lowly in the garden bend—
And words of wond'rous meaning might extend
To him that search'd what tidings these might bring,
Fore-runners of what pure and holy thing—
Yes! to his soul might reach that bitter cry—
“What, is it nothing, O ye passers by?”—
“Nothing to you these thorns?—This cursed tree?—
Behold—Behold and see
If there be any sorrow like to mine?—
Man's guilt and wrath Divine!”
Or haply on his burden'd soul might press
The world's dull cares—its wants, its weariness—
He hath no fellow—there are none to feel
Like woes with his, and by communion heal.
The idol-worshippers wax strong and bold,
And love hath long grown cold.
What wonder if his voice hath sorrow's tone?
He in the midst hath dwelt so long alone:
Or to his lips low pining words may come,
Looking and longing for his distant home!
The world's dull cares—its wants, its weariness—
He hath no fellow—there are none to feel
Like woes with his, and by communion heal.
The idol-worshippers wax strong and bold,
And love hath long grown cold.
What wonder if his voice hath sorrow's tone?
He in the midst hath dwelt so long alone:
188
Looking and longing for his distant home!
“O that I had wings!
Then would I flee away and be at rest—
I would betake me to the utmost springs
That in the desert rise, and calm my breast
Beside their lonely waters; I should hear,
About their margins drear,
No hymns to Baal chanted, but above
The sky would smile upon me, and my soul
Freed from earth's strong control,
And thought that fondly clings
Around forbidden things,
Should find a purer outlet for her love—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
Then would I flee away and be at rest—
I would betake me to the utmost springs
That in the desert rise, and calm my breast
Beside their lonely waters; I should hear,
About their margins drear,
No hymns to Baal chanted, but above
The sky would smile upon me, and my soul
Freed from earth's strong control,
And thought that fondly clings
Around forbidden things,
Should find a purer outlet for her love—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
“O that I had wings,
I would escape from stormy winds away
And tempests,—from the pain that scoffing brings,
The strife of tongues, from mumbling crowds that pray
By flames unhallow'd, from the weary pain
That frets me for the nation that I love,
From warnings long unheard and teachings vain:
I would betake me to a quiet shore
Where billows heave no more—
Would touch the golden strings
Whereto the Seraph sings—
I would escape unto the courts above—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
I would escape from stormy winds away
And tempests,—from the pain that scoffing brings,
The strife of tongues, from mumbling crowds that pray
By flames unhallow'd, from the weary pain
189
From warnings long unheard and teachings vain:
I would betake me to a quiet shore
Where billows heave no more—
Would touch the golden strings
Whereto the Seraph sings—
I would escape unto the courts above—
O that I had wings
Like a dove!”
190
II. PART II.
“And she said to her servant—“Drive and go forward—
slack not thy riding for me, except I bid thee.”—2 Kings,
iv. 24.
So she went on the man of God to meet,
And pour her bitter tidings at his feet:
And when he saw her on the mountain's height,
He said, in pity for her toilsome way—
“Behold now—yonder is that Shunamite—
I pray thee, run to meet her steps—and say—
Say—‘Is it well with thee?
And with thy husband well?—and with the child?’”
What should her answer be?
She said—“It is well”—but was unbeguil'd
By hope,—she bow'd her to grief's strong control,
And in her patience she possess'd her soul!
And pour her bitter tidings at his feet:
And when he saw her on the mountain's height,
He said, in pity for her toilsome way—
“Behold now—yonder is that Shunamite—
I pray thee, run to meet her steps—and say—
Say—‘Is it well with thee?
And with thy husband well?—and with the child?’”
What should her answer be?
She said—“It is well”—but was unbeguil'd
By hope,—she bow'd her to grief's strong control,
And in her patience she possess'd her soul!
And he said—“What is this?—
Hath God to tears of mourning turn'd her bliss?—
Let her alone;
Her soul is vex'd within her, but the Lord
No tidings doth afford
Of this her grief to me!—His goodness shone
Erewhile upon her head; the bitter moan
Of woe was far from her in days of old—
Now, He afflicteth her with all his waves;
But me He hath not told:
The voice of joy is flown—
She weeps as mothers on their firstborn's graves,
Let her alone!”
Hath God to tears of mourning turn'd her bliss?—
191
Her soul is vex'd within her, but the Lord
No tidings doth afford
Of this her grief to me!—His goodness shone
Erewhile upon her head; the bitter moan
Of woe was far from her in days of old—
Now, He afflicteth her with all his waves;
But me He hath not told:
The voice of joy is flown—
She weeps as mothers on their firstborn's graves,
Let her alone!”
Then she said, “Did I ask of thee a son?
Nay! but I said,
‘Do not deceive me.’ Let the Holy One,
That poureth out affliction on my head
And mourning, witness between me and thee—
I askèd not
Among my people for a happier lot—
Thy handmaid said,
‘Do not deceive me!’ Prophet, on thy bed
Around my firstborn's face Death's shadows fall,
Within the little chamber on the wall!”
O tidings strange to hear!
Too hard, too wonderful for human ear!
Will the Most High
Recal so soon the child that He hath sent?
‘Yet He is not a man that He should lie,
Nor that He should repent!’
The child of prayer—
Her child, who kneeling, wept before him there,
Who, in the kindness of her heart had made
A place of shelter and a welcome shade,
A refuge from the heat,
Rest for his toilworn limbs and weary feet—
Her child was dead! And yet he turn'd away—
For what could comfort do, or feeling say?
Yet still there was some comfort: strange and wild
Though seem'd the words he utter'd to her heart:
He said unto his servant, “Rise, depart,
Gird up thy loins, and lay
My staff upon the forehead of the child!”
Nay! but I said,
‘Do not deceive me.’ Let the Holy One,
That poureth out affliction on my head
And mourning, witness between me and thee—
I askèd not
Among my people for a happier lot—
Thy handmaid said,
‘Do not deceive me!’ Prophet, on thy bed
Around my firstborn's face Death's shadows fall,
Within the little chamber on the wall!”
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Too hard, too wonderful for human ear!
Will the Most High
Recal so soon the child that He hath sent?
‘Yet He is not a man that He should lie,
Nor that He should repent!’
The child of prayer—
Her child, who kneeling, wept before him there,
Who, in the kindness of her heart had made
A place of shelter and a welcome shade,
A refuge from the heat,
Rest for his toilworn limbs and weary feet—
Her child was dead! And yet he turn'd away—
For what could comfort do, or feeling say?
Yet still there was some comfort: strange and wild
Though seem'd the words he utter'd to her heart:
He said unto his servant, “Rise, depart,
Gird up thy loins, and lay
My staff upon the forehead of the child!”
“Take thou my staff, arise and seek
The bosom of the plain—
Him that salutes thee by the way,
Salute thou not again:
Press onward, let thy mission rest
Unutter'd and unknown,
And lay my staff upon his face,
Who slumbers there, alone!
The bosom of the plain—
Him that salutes thee by the way,
Salute thou not again:
193
Unutter'd and unknown,
And lay my staff upon his face,
Who slumbers there, alone!
“It may be, that my God will see,
And own the mute appeal—
It may be that the hand which smote
Will turn again and heal:
That He, who ever waits to bless,
Will grant an answer then,
Who doth not willingly afflict,
Nor grieve the sons of men!
And own the mute appeal—
It may be that the hand which smote
Will turn again and heal:
That He, who ever waits to bless,
Will grant an answer then,
Who doth not willingly afflict,
Nor grieve the sons of men!
“Depart in haste, but not because
Impatient thoughts would stir
Within the bosom of the child,
Though long thou should'st defer.
He, careless of thy willing foot,
With young lips clos'd and dumb,
Alone and silent on his bed,
Will wait till thou art come.
Impatient thoughts would stir
Within the bosom of the child,
Though long thou should'st defer.
He, careless of thy willing foot,
With young lips clos'd and dumb,
Alone and silent on his bed,
Will wait till thou art come.
“Yet, take my staff, and let it rest
Upon his pallid face,
Watch if a pulse it shall awake,
A start, a sigh, a trace—
Of aught that tells of life or change,
If hope may yet remain—
Then hast'ning on thy backward path,
Return to me again!”
Upon his pallid face,
194
A start, a sigh, a trace—
Of aught that tells of life or change,
If hope may yet remain—
Then hast'ning on thy backward path,
Return to me again!”
Then he arose,
And took his master's staff, and went his way,
Pass'd on with rapid foot that would not stay
For rest or for repose,
Or shelter from the heat of that clear harvest day—
Pass'd on, and reach'd the place,
And laid the staff upon the dead child's face;
Then listening bent—but there
Was neither voice nor hearing—there no tone,
No look, from sadden'd features still and fair,
No sigh, lamenting to be left alone—
No murmur'd accents fall
Upon his mother's name in sleep to call—
Nothing but silence round his bed doth brood,
With death and solitude!
And took his master's staff, and went his way,
Pass'd on with rapid foot that would not stay
For rest or for repose,
Or shelter from the heat of that clear harvest day—
Pass'd on, and reach'd the place,
And laid the staff upon the dead child's face;
Then listening bent—but there
Was neither voice nor hearing—there no tone,
No look, from sadden'd features still and fair,
No sigh, lamenting to be left alone—
No murmur'd accents fall
Upon his mother's name in sleep to call—
Nothing but silence round his bed doth brood,
With death and solitude!
195
III. PART III.
“And when Elisha was come into the house, behold! the
child was dead!”—2 Kings, iv. 32.
The child was dead—
Mute—mute and still he lay upon his bed,
And on his tender features yet remain'd
A mournful shadowing of the woe that plain'd—
“My head—my head!”
The utter languor of the heavy lid
His dim eyes hid:
But death hung brooding on the placid cheek
Declin'd in silence meek,
And hands, that over-wearied droop'd at rest
Upon the quiet breast.
Mute—mute and still he lay upon his bed,
And on his tender features yet remain'd
A mournful shadowing of the woe that plain'd—
“My head—my head!”
The utter languor of the heavy lid
His dim eyes hid:
But death hung brooding on the placid cheek
Declin'd in silence meek,
And hands, that over-wearied droop'd at rest
Upon the quiet breast.
Was not help vain?—
The child was dead!—The dead wake not again!
Yet he went in to him, and clos'd the door
Upon them twain—
Clos'd it, in solitude his soul to pour
With all its sorrows in that silent place
Before the dead child's face!
The Lord had hidden from His servant's eyes
The thing that he had done—and chill surprise
And anguish came upon him, like a cloud—
And fear and dread, to shroud
The dark unquiet visions of his soul,
And doubt awoke, to roll
Her earthborn mists across his weary heart,
Bidding prophetic visions high depart.
And who shall tell what woes his spirit felt
That mourn'd the loosing of the silver cord,
Who while the living with the dead he knelt
And prayed before the Lord?
The child was dead!—The dead wake not again!
196
Upon them twain—
Clos'd it, in solitude his soul to pour
With all its sorrows in that silent place
Before the dead child's face!
The Lord had hidden from His servant's eyes
The thing that he had done—and chill surprise
And anguish came upon him, like a cloud—
And fear and dread, to shroud
The dark unquiet visions of his soul,
And doubt awoke, to roll
Her earthborn mists across his weary heart,
Bidding prophetic visions high depart.
And who shall tell what woes his spirit felt
That mourn'd the loosing of the silver cord,
Who while the living with the dead he knelt
And prayed before the Lord?
“O that I knew Thee! Darkness veil'd,
Invisible—Unknown!
Thy secret hath not been with me—
Dweller afar—Alone!—
Who shall bend down thine ear to hear
By strength of mortal oath?—
O for a Daysman that might lay
His hand upon us both!
Invisible—Unknown!
Thy secret hath not been with me—
Dweller afar—Alone!—
Who shall bend down thine ear to hear
By strength of mortal oath?—
197
His hand upon us both!
“O that One liv'd to be the Peace,
And stand before Thy face,
Then would I cry, and Thou should'st hear
In that Thy dwelling-place.
Withdraw Thy terrors from my soul—
Searcher of hearts, forgive!
O Father of my spirit, who
Can feel Thy wrath—and live?
And stand before Thy face,
Then would I cry, and Thou should'st hear
In that Thy dwelling-place.
Withdraw Thy terrors from my soul—
Searcher of hearts, forgive!
O Father of my spirit, who
Can feel Thy wrath—and live?
“Behold—I know that I am vile
In thine all-holy eye,—
Abase me lower than the dust—
But hear me when I cry—
Was it for this Thy servant's sin
Thy hand was rais'd to slay?—
O show me why Thou dost contend,
And take the child away!
In thine all-holy eye,—
Abase me lower than the dust—
But hear me when I cry—
Was it for this Thy servant's sin
Thy hand was rais'd to slay?—
O show me why Thou dost contend,
And take the child away!
“Yea—hear me for Thy people's sake
Who Thy compassions share,—
(I number not my lot with theirs,
Too base such name to bear)—
But if, when they with mercy fill'd
Shall turn them to their rest—
One gleam of love remains—O let
It reach my darken'd breast!
Who Thy compassions share,—
198
Too base such name to bear)—
But if, when they with mercy fill'd
Shall turn them to their rest—
One gleam of love remains—O let
It reach my darken'd breast!
“Dost Thou not love me?—yea, Thou dost—
Thou gavest, at my prayer,
A child unto the childless wife,
Who for my need did care:
Thy kindness passeth human thought,
That Thou to me hast shown,
Or, long since wearied with my ways,
It had forgetful grown!
Thou gavest, at my prayer,
A child unto the childless wife,
Who for my need did care:
Thy kindness passeth human thought,
That Thou to me hast shown,
Or, long since wearied with my ways,
It had forgetful grown!
“My Father!—near yon sun a cloud
Hangs from the mountain ledge,
And sinking low, his golden rays
Stream through its purple edge:
Erewhile it loom'd a vapour frail,
Dark in the evening sky,—
Fill'd with his beams, it poureth now
Its glory from on high!
Hangs from the mountain ledge,
And sinking low, his golden rays
Stream through its purple edge:
Erewhile it loom'd a vapour frail,
Dark in the evening sky,—
Fill'd with his beams, it poureth now
Its glory from on high!
199
“Hear me!—Thy love upon my soul
Descending, hath array'd
In rays of light her being frail
That once in darkness stray'd.
Fill'd with Thy beams to Thee she turns—
Behold Thy glory there—
Look not on her, but on her robe,
Her garment white and fair.
Descending, hath array'd
In rays of light her being frail
That once in darkness stray'd.
Fill'd with Thy beams to Thee she turns—
Behold Thy glory there—
Look not on her, but on her robe,
Her garment white and fair.
“Look not on her, but on Thine own
Thy deep unchanging love,
She is no longer mean—adorn'd
With beauty from above.
Restore—O Thou that givest strength
The prayer of faith to pour—
By all the blessings of the past—
Giver of life—restore!
Thy deep unchanging love,
She is no longer mean—adorn'd
With beauty from above.
Restore—O Thou that givest strength
The prayer of faith to pour—
By all the blessings of the past—
Giver of life—restore!
“By all Thy kindness, by that care
That slumbers not, nor sleeps,
By hope that mercy yet for us
A brighter morning keeps—
By dreams that mystic things unfold,
By visions of the night,
Prophetic thoughts that shadow forth
The dawn of purer light.
That slumbers not, nor sleeps,
By hope that mercy yet for us
A brighter morning keeps—
By dreams that mystic things unfold,
By visions of the night,
200
The dawn of purer light.
“By Him, that on the plain by night
Our father Jacob met,
Prevailing not, that on his head
A princely blessing set,—
By all his wrestlings, by that voice
Unheard on earth before,
And by his name, reveal'd not yet,
I cry to thee, Restore!”
Our father Jacob met,
Prevailing not, that on his head
A princely blessing set,—
By all his wrestlings, by that voice
Unheard on earth before,
And by his name, reveal'd not yet,
I cry to thee, Restore!”
“Restore!” it echoes still—the prayer, “Restore!”
Or is there other sound,
Some voice that floats around?
For there is silence in the place no more!
Is it an Angel, sent to minister,
Whose wings so near him stir?
Or does the evening air towards him flow,
With measur'd murmurs low?
Still to the Lord the prophet's hands are spread,
In supplication strong he bows his head;—
The answer comes while yet he prays, “Restore!”
And there is silence in the place no more!
O calm, calm sleep—
Most holy dreams that those shut eyelids keep
Held in their gentle thraldom! O clear eyes,
Shining through fringes parting—quiet sighs,
And breathing soft and low!
“He is not dead, but sleepeth.” Let them flow,
Those winds of evening, to his couch, and chase
The shadowy sadness from his peaceful face;
Some touch unseen the listless hand hath press'd,
And it is warm upon the heaving breast!
Or is there other sound,
Some voice that floats around?
For there is silence in the place no more!
Is it an Angel, sent to minister,
Whose wings so near him stir?
Or does the evening air towards him flow,
With measur'd murmurs low?
Still to the Lord the prophet's hands are spread,
In supplication strong he bows his head;—
The answer comes while yet he prays, “Restore!”
And there is silence in the place no more!
201
Most holy dreams that those shut eyelids keep
Held in their gentle thraldom! O clear eyes,
Shining through fringes parting—quiet sighs,
And breathing soft and low!
“He is not dead, but sleepeth.” Let them flow,
Those winds of evening, to his couch, and chase
The shadowy sadness from his peaceful face;
Some touch unseen the listless hand hath press'd,
And it is warm upon the heaving breast!
Asleep, asleep! This day his soul hath lain
Hard by the gates of Heav'n, and heard a strain
Of music, pure and sweet,
The soon-returning spirit sent to greet,
And soothe for short delay
The soul drawn down by pray'r to its frail home of clay!
Asleep, asleep! There is a dim regret
On childlike features yet—
Some faint remembrance of that music past:
But it is fading fast—
It passeth!—It is gone! And sweetly now
Plays the calm smile upon his cheek and brow—
The dream departeth, and the eyes unclose,
Won back to earth again—
Forget the rapture of that deep repose,
That Heav'nly strain!
Hard by the gates of Heav'n, and heard a strain
Of music, pure and sweet,
The soon-returning spirit sent to greet,
And soothe for short delay
The soul drawn down by pray'r to its frail home of clay!
Asleep, asleep! There is a dim regret
On childlike features yet—
Some faint remembrance of that music past:
But it is fading fast—
It passeth!—It is gone! And sweetly now
Plays the calm smile upon his cheek and brow—
202
Won back to earth again—
Forget the rapture of that deep repose,
That Heav'nly strain!
Hearken—he calleth her, that Shunamite,
Who in her anguish murmur'd, “It is well!”
In darkness sore, at noon those accents fell—
But it is eventide, and there is light—
Behold he calleth her—for all is won—
And saith, “Take up thy son!”
Who in her anguish murmur'd, “It is well!”
In darkness sore, at noon those accents fell—
But it is eventide, and there is light—
Behold he calleth her—for all is won—
And saith, “Take up thy son!”
| A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings | |