Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/456

424   Yet ever at the hour I feel My lips in prophecy unseal. Prince, priest, and Levite gather near, And Salem’s daughters haste to hear, On Chebar’s waste and alien shore, The harp of Judah swept once more. They listen, as in Babel’s throng The Chaldeans to the dancer’s song, Or wild sabbeka’s nightly play, As careless and as vain as they.

And thus, O Prophet-bard of old, Hast thou thy tale of sorrow told! The same which earth’s unwelcome seers Have felt in all succeeding years. Sport of the changeful multitude, Nor calmly heard nor understood, Their song has seemed a trick of art, Their warnings but the actor’s part. With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, The world requites its prophets still.

So was it when the Holy One The garments of the flesh put on! Men followed where the Highest led For common gifts of daily bread, And gross of ear, of vision dim, Owned not the Godlike power of Him. Vain as a dreamer’s words to them His wail above Jerusalem, And meaningless the watch He kept Through which His weak disciples slept.

Yet shrink not thou, whoe’er thou art, For God’s great purpose set apart, Before whose far-discerning eyes, The Future as the Present lies! Beyond a narrow-bounded age Stretches thy prophet-heritage, Through Heaven’s vast spaces angel-trod, And through the eternal years of God! Thy audience, worlds!—all things to be The witness of the Truth in thee!

by Earth’s wrong and evil,
 * “Lord!” I cried in sudden ire,

“From Thy right hand, clothed with thunder,
 * Shake the bolted fire!

Love is lost, and Faith is dying;
 * With the brute the man is sold;

And the dropping blood of labor
 * Hardens into gold.

Here the dying wail of Famine,
 * There the battle’s groan of pain;

And, in silence, smooth-faced Mammon
 * Reaping men like grain.

‘Where is God, that we should fear Him?’
 * Thus the earth-born Titans say;

‘God! if Thou art living, hear us!’
 * Thus the weak ones pray.”

Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding,”
 * Spake a solemn Voice within;

Weary of our Lord’s forbearance,
 * Art thou free from sin?

Fearless brow to Him uplifting,
 * Canst thou for His thunders call,

Knowing that to guilt’s attraction
 * Evermore they fall?

Know’st thou not all germs of evil
 * In thy heart await their time?

Not thyself, but God’s restraining,
 * Stays their growth of crime.

Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness!
 * O’er the sons of wrong and strife,

Were their strong temptations planted
 * In thy path of life?

Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing
 * From one fountain, clear and free,

But by widely varying channels
 * Searching for the sea.

Glideth one through greenest valleys,
 * Kissing them with lips still sweet;

One, mad roaring down the mountains,
 * Stagnates at their feet.

Is it choice whereby the Parsee
 * Kneels before his mother’s fire?

In his black tent did the Tartar
 * Choose his wandering sire?

He alone, whose hand is bounding
 * Human power and human will,

Looking through each soul’s surrounding,
 * Knows its good or ill.