To leave my child. The tears fell silently And heavy, as I bent my head again, And yet again, to kiss the cold pale cheek; "How shall I leave thee? God Himself be here, And hold thee back from Death, until I come! It is a little way: a little while And I return. Wait for me till I haste Across the hills, and come again to thee." A sweet smile wandered on his fading face, "Yes, mother, I will wait; I shall not Were darkening heaven, and everything was still, And faint, and sickening with the burning breath Of coming storms, I stood at length before The man of God in Shiloh. Then he rose That blind and awful Prophet of the Lord And stretched his hand to heaven, and the curse Like thunder burst upon my head from God. He stretched his hand to heaven, and the clouds Of heaven answered him, for while he poured Each awful curse, the thunders crashed above, And deadly lightnings gleamed and gleamed again. Curses on Israel, on the pleasant land Which had been precious in the eyes of God; Curses upon her king who had provoked With many sins that higher King, who reigns A jealous God in Israel. And still After each awful curse, the awful crash Of thunder shook the earth, and smote my heart As if great voices up in Heaven said "Amen" to every curse. And lightnings gleamed, As if impatient to begin the work Of judgment in the land. I fell upon My face. I think I would have died before The Lord that day, what time His thunders woke, And His blind Prophet in dread words proclaimed The darkness and the doom of Israel,— But ever and anon the sweet child's voice Which spoke to me at dawning (when there were No thunders in the sky, but only starsFair morning stars-which seemed to My trembling soul, "Yet shall a Star arise On Jacob, and the midnight shadows flee Before His Face." I tried to stay my heart Upon this word, until amid the crash That very day in peace, and Israel pass This day within thy city-gate, the child Shall die." * I know not how I went that day Along the road from Shiloh. All my heart Seemed stunned and stricken, as by some wild blow Dealt by an unseen hand. I hurried on, And could not bear to tarry on the road, Although I knew that every step I took In hastening to the child, brought Death more near Not me more near-to him. I know I prayed At times, not asking anything. I think, But helplessly repeating God's great Name In my great agony. And thus I went In my strange haste, until I reached the gate Of Tirzah on her palaces and towers The afternoon was shining, and the gate Stood open. Then it seemed as if a dream, A woful dream, had wrapped me all the day, But the gate woke me, and the word came back And smote upon me like a blow from God Given in anger,-"When thy feet do pass This day within the city-gate, the child Shall die." Then my heart fainted utterly, And all things seemed to darken, and I crept A holy man, Who saw high visions of unuttered things, Dwelt, in deep-musing solitude, apart Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark winged birds, Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, At night and morning lay their gathered spoils Down at his feet. So, of the brook he drank, Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill Which, singing, used to glide to Jordan's breast. Then, warned of God, he rose and went his way Unto the coast of Zidon. Near the gates Of Zarephath he marked a lowly cell, Where a pale, drooping widow, in the depth Of desolate and hopeless poverty, Prepared the last scant morsel for her That ancient Israel felt, when round their camp The manna lay like dew. Thus many days They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy Looked up with a clear eye, while vigorous health Flushed with unwonted crimson his pure cheek, And bade the fair flesh o'er his wasted limbs Come like a garment. The lone widow mused On her changed lot, yet to Jehovah's name Gave not the praise: but when the silent moon Moved forth all radiant, on her stargirt throne, Uttered a heathen's gratitude, and hailed, In the deep chorus of Zidonian song, "Astarte, queen of Heaven!" But then there came A day of wo. That gentle boy, in whom His mother lived, for whom alone she deemed Time's weary heritage a blessing, died. Wildly the tides of passionate grief broke forth, And on the prophet of the Lord, her lip Called with indignant frenzy. So he came, And from her bosom took the breathless clay, And bore it to his chamber. There he knelt In supplication that the dead might live. He rose, and looked upon the child. His cheek Of marble meekly on the pillow lay, While round his polished forehead, the bright curls Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept Beauty and innocence in Death's embrace, It seemed a mournful thing to waken them. Another prayer arose-and he, whose faith Had power o'er nature's elements, to seal |