Mild is my Behemoth, though large his frame; Smooth is his temper, and repressed his flame; While unprovoked. This native of the flood Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food: Earth sinks beneath him as he moves along To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng. See, with what strength his hardened loins are bound, All over proof, and shut against a wound! How like a mountain cedar moves his tail! Nor can his complicated sinews fail. Built high and wide, his solid bones sur pass The bars of steel; his ribs are ribs of brass; His port majestic, and his armèd jaw, Give the wide forest and the mountain law. The mountains feed him; there the beasts admire The mighty stranger, and in dread retire; At length his greatness nearer they survey, Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey. The ferns and marshes are his cool retreat, His noontide shelter from the burning heat; Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made, And groves of willows give him all their shade. His eye drinks Jordan up, when, fired with drought, He trusts to turn its current down his throat; In lessened waves it creeps along the plain, He sinks a river, and he thirsts again. EDWARD YOUNG (1684-1765). A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME. (From Job.) A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld And there it stood-all formless-but divine: Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: "Is man more just than God? Is man more pure Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! The moth survives you, and are ye more just? Things of a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!" LORD BYRON (1788-1824). LEGEND OF IYOB THE UPRIGHT. (From "The Son of a Prophet.") THE mountains talk of Ben Rahah, And the caves of Argob have their heroes; Kenath and Batanah and Salkad exult, When we speak the name of Iyob. Rich in sons and daughters. His oxen ploughed from desert to mountain, His camels traded from sea to sea; And sanctified his house with burntofferings. When he came to the cities, he sat in the gates; For he judged righteous judgment. When he passed through the land there was joy; For the poor were made rich by his bounty. Of the sons of the East the greatest, In a day his riches took wings. The swords of the bands of the Chaldeans. Oxen and asses and camels were gone, Snatched by the plunderers. Fire fell from heaven; The sheep were consumed at one offering. One only escaped to bring each tale of disaster. Then another came, telling a tale more awful: "Thy sons and thy daughters were feasting together, And now together they are not. The house was crushed by the cyclone, womb, And naked shall I return. Again a blow, and men said, "Can this be Iyob the Upright?" With sore disease he was smitten: A festering outcast he sat among the ashes. Of the thousands who had waited his will, His wife alone now served him. "And shall we not receive evil?" And yet once more he was crushed. The multitude had fled with his wealth; The contempt of the proud had come with his sores. Yet he said, "I can bear it; My true friends still trust me." Then these friends appointed to meet him, And came and sat down in his presence. Eliphaz the seer came from Teman, Bildad from Shuah, and Zophar from Naamah. Seven days they sat and spake not, Then they opened their mouths andrebuked him: His trusted friends, his last hope on earth, condemned him. He had sinned and was hiding his evil; Let him confess and return to Eloah. But he knew himself Iyob the Upright, And would none of their charges of evil. Nay, but it must be; only guilt could bring suffering, Could have brought such sudden destruction Let him pretend no more to be upright, In vain he appealed to their mercy: He himself or Eloah who smote him, ness. Should mortal man be more just than God? Should a man be more pure than his Maker? Then the bitterness of Iyob was utter: But still he was Iyob the Upright. He opened his mouth and spake: "Though Eloah slay me, yet will I trust him: I fear, I adore, I will not forsake him." Lo, then a whirlwind, and the voice of Eloah! "Behold Iyob, I have owned him; He speaketh of me the thing that is right, JOB xxiii: 8-10. FORWARD I now in duties go, But O, my Saviour is not there! Heavy He makes me drive, and slow, Without the chariot-wheels of prayer. I look to former times, and strain Surrounded by His power I stand; Groaning, I languish at His stay, But He regards my every groan: Dark and disconsolate my way, But still my way to Him is known. When fully He my faith hath tried, Like gold I in the fire shall shine, Come forth when seven times purified, And strongly bear the stamp divine. CHARLES WESLEY (1708-1788). Thence he maketh a weight for the winds as they sweep, Thence weigheth the waters by meas ure, When he made a decree that controuleth the deep, And stampt on the thunder his pleas ure. Then he searched it, and saw it, and uttered the word, To man his high precept commanding, "Behold that is wisdom, the fear of the Lord; And from evil to fly, understanding." WILLIAM SOTHEBY (1757-1833). JOB. WERE I to turn the vast historic page, Power-ne'er hath been equalled since. Behold the piety of this exalted man! And see him hurled in one short hour From greatness, glory, majesty, and pomp; From wealth, from happiness, and power! There's not a murmur issues from his lips! He who in regal splendour shone So lately-surrounded by a comely race Of offspring-now is left aloneAnd desolate-and poor-without one child To soothe him with a fond caressTo catch the drops that down his cheeks must fall And say, my father, still I thee can bless! Oh! this desolation of a parent's heart Must be unutterably keen! No tongue can tell no soul conceive the woe The bitter woe-this must have been! But here, alas! did not his trials end: With anguish must his frame be torn Disease that's loathsome - horrible -that bids SLY Beelzebub took all occasions And the sly Devil did not take his spouse. But Heaven that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the Devil, SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE POETS OF OLD ISRAEL. But upward from the humble tent JOHN VANCE CHENEY (1848–). |