KINGS OF MEN.

’Twas years since I had heard the name,When, seen in print, before my eyesThe old Round Tower seemed to rise,With silent scorn of noisy fame.

Our little boat, like water-bird,Touches the still Lake, breast to breast;No sound disturbs the solemn restSave kiss of oar and whisper’d word.

All Nature wears a placid smileOf gold and blue and tender green;And in the setting of the sceneLies, like a gem, the Holy Isle.

Hushed is the music of the oar;A little hand is placed in mine;My blood runs wildly, as with wine—We stand together on the shore.

O boyish days! O boyish heart!In vain I wish you back again!O boyish fancy’s first sweet pain,How glorious, after all, thou art!

The old Round Tower, the ruined walls,Where mould’ring bones once knelt in prayer,The Latin legend, winding stair,—These any “tourist’s book” recalls.

But, oh! the love, the wild delight,The sweet romance of long ago,All these have vanished, as the glowOf eventide fades out at night.

As hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud,Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance;Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud,To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance?Must we conspire to curse the humbling light,Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bowed,Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight,Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd?Oh, no! God send us light!—Who loses then?The king of slaves and not the king of men.True kings are kings for ever, crowned of God,The King of Kings,—we need not fear for them.’Tis only the usurper’s diademThat shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud.

“After these things, when the wrath of King Ahasuerus was appeased, he remembered Vashti.”—Book of Estherii.I.

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my faceTo the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base?Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful,[A]me, Queen of Queens,To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes?

[A]Vashti means “Beautiful Woman;” Esther means “A Star.”

I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men!No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness’ den,When she’s fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that tearHer breasts with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, aye, sooner than there!

Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest?I have seen him in wine, and I fancied ’twas then that he loved me the best;Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the heartThan a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart.

But ever before, in his wine, towards me he shewed honour and grace,—He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles he made them remember their place;But now all is changed: I am vile, they are honoured, they push me aside,—A butt for Memucan, and Shethar, and Meres, gone mad in their pride!* * * * *

* * * * *

Shall I faint? shall I pine? shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love?Not I; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above—The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out by aStar,That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his Court and his Captains of War.* * * * *

* * * * *

He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine,On the couch by his side, where, of yore, his Beautiful used to recline.But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath, and the laws of the Medes,And he cannot call Vashti again, though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds.

So they ransacked the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while—I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile,Gazing dreamily on as each maiden is temptingly passed in review,While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew!* * * * *

* * * * *

Thenshecame, when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past!She is fair—I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last!But, e’en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill,The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still.* * * * *

* * * * *

Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife,—I am sick to the very heart of my soul of this life—this death in life!Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might,And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light!* * * * *

* * * * *

What is it? Oft, as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears,There comes—it came to me just now—a flash, then disappears:A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene,That makes me dream what was, shall be, and what is now, has been.

And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne,And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own;And for the joy of what has been and what again shall be,I’ll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery!* * * * *

* * * * *

The star! the star! oh! blazing light that burns into my soul!The star! the star! oh! flickering light of life beyond control!O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own,Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther’s light has flown!

To-day, three hundred years ago,A common, English April morn,In Stratford town a child was born,Stratford, where Avon’s waters flow.

No guns are fired, no joy-bell rings:But neighbours call to see the boyAnd mother, and to wish them joy,And then—attend to other things.

Some years glide by—the boy is man;At school they thought him apt to learn;And now he goes from home to earnHis livelihood, as best he can.

He takes the stage; he writes a play;’Tis well received; he writes again;His name is known, and courtly menAre glad to hear what he may say.

For he flings wreaths of pearls abroad,Like shells or daisies idly strung;Nor sparing brain, nor pen, nor tongue,Nor waiting until men applaud;

But, like a bird, a noble songHe sings, as Genius teaches him—Regardless of the critic’s whim—Whether he think it right or wrong.

Great Nature’s book he wisely reads:He solves the mystery of life,And cuts, with philosophic knife,The tangled knot of human deeds.

Man’s passion—madness, hatred, guile,Hope, mercy, friendship, honour, truth;The griefs of age—the joys of youth;The patriot’s tear—the villain’s smile;

The modest gem—the tinselled gaud,Of noble worth or base pretence;The glory bought at blood’s expense;The power gained by force or fraud—

On these his sun of genius shone,Making a wondrous photograph,Till even critics ceased to laugh,And owned the picture nobly done.

The chromatrope of woman’s heart;The words forgot with passion’s breath;The vanity that conquers death;The feathery smile that wings a dart;

The gentle care that makes man blest;The truth far more than jewels worth;The love that makes a heaven of earth—All these to him were manifest.

He touches the historic page—The dead return to life again,And feel and speak like real men,Hero or lover, king or sage.

The realms of air, with potent wand,He enters boldly as a king;And fays, that float on viewless wing,Sing dreamy songs at his command!

And witches point, with palsied hand,And blast the air with hellish chime;And ghosts revisit earth a time,With messages from spirit-land!

He calls, and what men fancied dumb,Hills, groves, and lakes, and brooks, and stones,Answer him in a thousand tones,Till silence makes a joyous hum.

In fine, he made “the world a stage,”And all upon it act their parts—By Nature’s prompting and by Art’s—For Art is Nature taught by age.

And, singing thus, he passed his days—Not without honour, it is true—Yet hardly understood by few,And these were slow in giving praise.

And men had lived in mist so long,Some could not bear his blaze of light,But shut their eyes, and said ’twas night,When it ’twas just the noon of song.

But when his soul shook off its clay,And hied, its labour done, to God,Throughout the land that he had trod,’Twas felt “A King is dead to-day!”

And now, when centuries have flown,Some shout, “Come, build a monument,For all arrears of poet-rent,”—As ifheneeded brass or stone!

O man! how oft thy acts have lied!Thou crushest those who strive to live,And makest poor pretence to giveFame unto him thou can’st not hide.

And some are honoured, being dead,By those who coldly turned aside,And gave them, living, but their pride,When they, perhaps, were needing bread!

Yet not to all such honour comes—Only a few bright names are knownOf all the “simple, great ones gone”—The most are only found on tombs.

But one shall never pass away—His, who was born in Stratford town,When brave Queen Bess wore England’s crown,Three hundred years ago to-day!

O grand, old Earth of God’s and ours,Once more thou doffest winter’s veil,Once more the budding trees and flowersAnd birds’ sweet music bid thee hail!

Is it a time for joy or care,O Earth?—a time to laugh or weep?What myriads in thy bosom sleep,And we shall soon lie sleeping there!

O Earth! ’tis hard to understandWhy thou should’st thus thy children crave!For art thou not a mighty grave,Though strewn with flowers by God’s good hand?

Thou hearest not, amid thy mirth,Nor carest though thy children die,And senseless in thy bosom lie,Cold and unthought of, cruel Earth!

And yet, O Earth! a little seed,Dropt by man’s hand within thy heart,Thou makest great, and dost impartTo him again for every need!

O Earth! if seed that man lets fallInto thy heart, thou givest thusBack thirty, sixty-fold to us,Thou art not cruel, after all!

Nor dost thou, Earth, thy children crave;’Tis God that sows them as His seed,And by and bye they shall be freed,As beauteous flowers for him who gave.

O gay, Spring Earth of God’s and ours,—Nay, rather, thou and we are His,And sun and stars and all that is,—We bid thee hail with birds and flowers!

Our days of happiness Time hurries by,As though in haste his envy found relief;But in our nights of anguish his cold eyeLingers upon us, gloating o’er our grief,—Yet in the past we fain would live again,Forgetting, for the gladness, all the pain.

So pass our years. It seems a little whileSince, with wild throbbings in my boyish heart,I westward gazed from my own western isle,And saw the white-winged messengers depart.Ah! little thought I then that o’er the seaLived any one that should be dear to me.

Years fled—and other eyes were westward turned,And I was on the bosom of the deep,While strange emotions in my bosom burned—A sorrow that I thought would never sleep:For all that I had loved on earth was gone,—Perhaps forever—and—I was alone;

Save that I heard the dear familiar noiseOf the old ocean, and can well recallThe bliss, the awe, the love without a voiceWith which I felt that great heart rise and fall,Like some untamed and tameless “thing of life”That frets for something worthy of its strife.

And then I was alone amid the dinOf ceaseless strugglers after wealth and power,Content to hide the better soul within,And pass in men’s applause a gaudy hour,—To act out well a something they are not,—To be admired and praised—despised, forgot.

I was alone, but in my fancy grewA fair ideal, fashioned from the bestAnd purest feelings that my spirit knew;And this ideal was the goddess-guestIn my heart’s temple; but I sought not thenTo find my goddess in the haunts of men.

And yet I found her—all-personifiedThe goddess of my lonely-loving heart,And—as an artist, when he stands besideSome genius-fathered, beauteous child of art,Worships it mutely, with enraptured gaze—My love was far too deep for words of praise.

But, ah! earth’s brightest joys are bought with pain:Meeting with parting,—smiles with bitter tears,—Hope ends in sorrow,—loss succeeds to gain,—And youth’s gay spring-time leads to wintry years;Nought lives that dies not in the world’s wide range,And nothing is unchangeable but change.

My bliss was o’er. I was again aloneAmid the scenes that I had learned to loveFor her dear sake; but, ah! the charm was goneFrom river-side and mountain-slope and grove—All, save the memory of happy hoursThat lingered like the sweetness of dead flowers.

And as the ground on which a temple stoodIs holy, though the temple stand no more,So river, mountain, waterfall and woodWore something of the sacredness they woreWhen her loved presence blessed them, and her faceMade all around her smile with her sweet grace.

And I am still alone, and years have fled,And other scenes are ’round me, as I callThe past by Memory’s magic from the dead,As Endor’s Sibyl brought the Seer to Saul.(Mayhenot then have thought of that good timeWhen David’s music lulled his soul from crime?)

And I, with more of bitterness than bliss,The summoned years of my past life review,Till Hope’s red lips with love pale Sorrow’s kiss,And all things good and beautiful and true,Start rainbow-like from Sorrow’s falling tears,Spanning with hues of Heaven all my years.

And as I ope the temple of my heartAnd seek its inmost and its holiest shrine,Still there, my love, my darling one, thou art,—There still I worship thee and call thee mine;And this sweet anthem all that temple fills—“Love cannot lose, ’tis loss of love that kills.”

What cry was that which woke me from my dream?I stand upon my native, island shore,And hear the startled curlews round me screamO’er the mute cliffs that make the fierce waves roar;I watch the “stately ships” go sailing by,And wonder how my heart has learned to sigh.

Ah!thatwas but a dream. A summer’s eveBreathes all its balmy blessings on my brow;I feel as though the earth had got reprieveFrom its death-sentence. See, the sun sets now—The blue of heaven grows gently dark above,—Below, blue eyes are growing dark with love.

That, too, was but a dream. What startled me?The winds are making havoc ’mong the leavesOf summer-time, and each once happy treeFor its lost darlings rocks itself and grieves.The night is dark, the sky is thick with clouds—Kind frost-nymphs make the little leaves their shrouds!

Now lies Adonis in Prosérpine’s breast,Who o’er him spreads a mantle lily white,And every dryad, with disordered vest,Teareth her hair for sorrow at the sight.And ere he waketh, many an eye, now bright,Shall deaden; many a rosy cheek shall pale;O’er many a fair, young head shall rise the wailOf those whom Death hath spoiled of their delight.And, when, at touch of Spring, the winding sheetThat wraps thee now, Adonis, melts to flowers,To deck thee for thy Queen; and sunny Hours,Dancing around thee on their soft swift feet,Sing “Wake, Adonis;” many a one shall weepFor those that in the Earth’s dark bosom sleep.

When the weary sun has ended his journey and descended,By his own bright, golden pathway, to his mansion in the west,And the sentry stars have taken the sky he has forsaken,To watch till he awaken, bright and smiling, from his rest;

And the Moon is rising slowly with a light serene and holy,The Queen of all the watchers, the sister of the Sun,And hushed are all the noises from Earth’s unnumbered voices,And the heart of sleep rejoices in the conquest he has won;

In the still, unbroken quiet, free from day’s unceasing riot,I love to call around me the friends of long before,And to fill my vacant places with the well-remembered gracesOf dear, old familiar faces that may smile for me no more.

Some that shared my boyish pastime, as they seemed to me the last timeThat I saw them, full of life and joy and hope that knew no bound,But who now are sad and grieving, and have lost the gay believingIn the deeds of hope’s achieving, or—are laid beneath the ground;—

Some, not merely friends for pleasure, but who cherished friendship’s treasureMore than gold or worldly honour or gay fashion’s fickle smile,Who would neither scorn nor flatter, who spoke honestly, no matterHow the world might grin and chatter, loving truth and hating guile;—

Some whose silvery hair seemed saintly, and whose eyes though shining faintly,Shed a tender lustre o’er me that will light me till the graveThat with all men I inherit takes my body, and my spirit,Trusting in my Savour’s merit, has returned to God who gave;—

One, whom I have lost forever, but whom I will still endeavourTo deserve, though undeserving to have passed before her eyes,For I know that while I love her, what is best and purest of herNear me, through my life shall hover, like an angel from the skies;—

These, by Fancy, great enchanter, called, into my presence enter,When the Sun and Earth are sleeping and the Moon and Stars are bright,And whatever past seemed pleasant I live over in the present,And the cares of day are lessened by the magic of the night.

While sleep had set its seal on many eyes,Balaam, the Seer, was forth beneath the stars,Whose beauty glimmered in Euphrates’ stream,Gemming the mournful willows’ floating hair.Behind him were the mountains of the east,The dark-browed nurses of the blue-eyed founts,Whose lone hearts were the life of Pethor-land.Westward, beyond the river, was the waste,O’er which, this second time, with priceless gifts,Had come from Balak noble messengers;And westward were the eyes of Balaam turned,As one who waits for one who does not come,While wild things came and passed unheeded by,And the night wind, as with an angel’s harp,Played lullaby to all the dreaming flowers.And, gazing on the western sky, he sawA picture, all whose forms were quick with life,Where all was discord, hurrying to and fro,As when two armies strive to gain the field;For, from the outer realms of space, there cameGigantic spearsmen, over whom there wavedGay, many-coloured banners, and these flew,Hither and thither, o’er the starry plain,Pursuing and retreating; others came,And others, till it seemed all SabaothHad joined in conflict with the wicked one.And then there was a change; banners and spearsFaded away, as fades away the reekAbove a hamlet on a frosty morn;And none can tell when he sees last of it.And, in a little while, there grew an arch,Whose keystone was the zenith of the sky,Like to a rainbow, joining east and west,Beautiful, quivering, fearful, ominous,Drawing the heart of Balaam after it.And this, too, vanished, vapor-like, away;And Balaam, though he waited its return,Waited in vain; for warriors, and spears,And banners, and the fiery flash of hostsEmbattled, and the mystic arch, were gone,And came no more.And Balaam stood amazedLong time, while thoughts, conflicting, tore his breast,And barred all passage for his voice.At length,“Hath not the Highest, by this sign, declaredHis purpose?I must go!” he said, and thenDark-boding terrors shook him and the strainThat held his face rapt westward, all relaxedBy speech, he felt as one, who, in a dream,Stands on a steep cliff, by the greedy sea,While ruthless foes pursue him.“I must go!”He said, and from ten thousand horrid throatsThere seemed to come a mocking answer, “Go!”And o’er him came a shiver, as a lakeShivers beneath the burden of a breeze.And then there came a whisper to his ear,“Balaam, God’s prophet! go not with these men!Puttest thou Balak’s honour above HisWho chose thee to declare His will to men?Go, and thou art undone! God doth not lie!”Then Balaam, as in answer to a friend:“There came across the desert lordly menFrom Moab and from Midian, who besought,With many prayers and noble gifts, that I,Balaam, the Seer, would go with them and curseA people who were terrible in war—To whom the strength of Moab was as grassBefore the oxen, feeding on the plains—If, haply, I might crush them with a curse!These prayed I to abide with me all night,Till I should learn the purpose of the Lord—And, in a dream, God warned me not to go;And so they went away ungratified.Then came these princes with more precious gifts,And still more precious promises, who said,‘Balak, our lord, hath sent us unto thee,And prayeth thee to come. He will promoteThee and thy house to honour; and all boons,Whate’er thou askest, he will freely give.’And I replied, ‘If Balak’s house were fullOf gold and silver, and he made it mine,Or more or less than God commandeth me,I could not do. But tarry here to-night,And I will hear the answer of the Lord.’And then God sent a sign, the like of whichI, who know all the faces of the night,And am familiar with all stars that shineOver the hills and plains of Pethor-land,Have never seen before, a sign which said:‘Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.’Or more or less than God commandeth meI cannot do. Am I in this to blame?”And then the wind came sweeping down the hills,And Balaam heard again the mocking cry,“If these man call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”And though he shuddered, all his face grew darkAnd knotted, as he said, “God doth not lie,But—doth God mock? Hath he not sent a signTo me, who have the power of reading signs,His own high gift? And now—and now, O God!If thou wouldst send me yet another sign—!”And here the whisper of the still, small voiceCame back, “O, Balaam! wretched is their fate,Who, knowing good from evil, choose not good,Or suffer evil, howsoever fair,To make the good less lovely in their eyes!Full well thou knowest that thy heart is setMore on the gold of Balak than God’s will.God doth not mock. ’Tis thou that mockest Him,Coming into His presence, full of lust,And seeking for a sign. If thou wert pureNo sign were needed. Being as thou art,Wert thou to offer up the land’s whole wealth,Oxen and rams, and corn, and wine, and oil,And all the first-born of thy kings, no signWould purge thee of those sordid dreams that dragThy soul from God to hell!It is not yet too late,Perhaps, and but perhaps!O, Balaam, rouse thee!Thou art, e’en yet, God’s prophet! He has shewnHis will to none more clearly than to thee.What is it He requireth at thy hands?Be true and honest, pure and merciful,Having thy heart aflame with faith and love,Still walking humbly, as though prone to fall—Guarding thine eyes from covetous wanderings,Deeming God’s gifts more beautiful than man’s—And he will keep thee right in all thy ways.Oh! what is Balak’s honour, Balak’s gold,To Balaam, if the Highest be his friend,Who owns the wealth and beauty of the world?Balaam, if these men call thee, do not go.”And Balaam bowed himself unto the ground,And lay upon his face in misery;And in his heart an awful battle raged,Where evil fought with good. Longtime he lay,As one entranced, all motionless, but full,Through every nerve, of wakeful, painful life.And then he rose, as from his grave, so paleAnd wild his visage; and he looked again,Along the waste, towards the western sky,But saw no sign, save that the stars grew dim,And some were gone; and, even as he looked,He seemed to hear from all the waking earth,Borne through the gloaming on the mountain wind,The words he loved and longed for and yet loathed,“Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.”And once again a shudder shook his frame;And once again he bowed him to the earth,And lay upon his face in misery,Until, from weariness, he fell asleep.And as he slept, he dreamed he was a childAnd heard sweet music, soft as is the breezeThat steals through corn-fields on a summer’s day,And makes the flowers kiss sweetly, and the leavesOn every tree grow tremulous for joy.And then there came a noble, swelling strain,Like the grand chorus of victorious hostsThat still march on to victory; and he heard,And was a man, with men—a king of men,With crown of inspiration on his brow.Around him thronged the chiefs of Pethor-landAnd others, from afar, who came to hearThe wisdom God had given to his lips.But he was still as humble as the childThat played of yore amid the flowers, and drewFrom their sweet breath the beauty of the good.And as he spoke, they listened to his wordsAs to an angel’s: for his words were wise,Wiser than all the wisdom of the East.Then came a discord, as a sound of wavesThat dash against tall rocks, while drowning menTry vainly to be heard. And Balaam grewProud with the pride of vain and worldly men,And thought within his heart how great he was,Forgetting who had made him wise and great;And thought of all the homage and the giftsYielded to him by princes of all lands,Till his heart turned to evil more than good.Then came a sound of battle and wild cries,The blare of trumpets, and the clash of swords,And the fierce neigh of war-steeds, and the groansOf dying men,—and Balaam lay with these,Far from the hills and streams of Pethor-land.And, as he lay, he heard an awful voice,High o’er the din of battle, and the words,“If these men call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”And Balaam woke; and on the Eastern hillsBeheld the ruddy blossom of the dayBursting from out the sapphire of the sky;And all the earth looked pure as when it rose,At first, in beauty, from the primal sea,And all the heavenly hosts sang songs of joy.But still the night lingered in Balaam’s soul,And all the pleasant voices of the morn,With which, erstwhile, he joined in hymns of praise,Were buried, as all hues are lost in black,In the dark horrors of one fatal cry,“If these men call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”And fainter was the whisper than before,And Balaam heard it not, or heeded not,As with slow steps—as one who walks in chains—And head bowed low upon his breast, he movedHomeward to where the princes waited him.And Balaam told them not of sign or dream,But only made him ready for the road.And ere the sun was half-way up the sky,Both he and they were far upon the wasteThat stretched towards Moab,—and he nevermoreBeheld the hills and streams of Pethor-land.

And Balaam stood amazedLong time, while thoughts, conflicting, tore his breast,And barred all passage for his voice.At length,“Hath not the Highest, by this sign, declaredHis purpose?I must go!” he said, and thenDark-boding terrors shook him and the strainThat held his face rapt westward, all relaxedBy speech, he felt as one, who, in a dream,Stands on a steep cliff, by the greedy sea,While ruthless foes pursue him.“I must go!”He said, and from ten thousand horrid throatsThere seemed to come a mocking answer, “Go!”And o’er him came a shiver, as a lakeShivers beneath the burden of a breeze.And then there came a whisper to his ear,“Balaam, God’s prophet! go not with these men!Puttest thou Balak’s honour above HisWho chose thee to declare His will to men?Go, and thou art undone! God doth not lie!”Then Balaam, as in answer to a friend:“There came across the desert lordly menFrom Moab and from Midian, who besought,With many prayers and noble gifts, that I,Balaam, the Seer, would go with them and curseA people who were terrible in war—To whom the strength of Moab was as grassBefore the oxen, feeding on the plains—If, haply, I might crush them with a curse!These prayed I to abide with me all night,Till I should learn the purpose of the Lord—And, in a dream, God warned me not to go;And so they went away ungratified.Then came these princes with more precious gifts,And still more precious promises, who said,‘Balak, our lord, hath sent us unto thee,And prayeth thee to come. He will promoteThee and thy house to honour; and all boons,Whate’er thou askest, he will freely give.’And I replied, ‘If Balak’s house were fullOf gold and silver, and he made it mine,Or more or less than God commandeth me,I could not do. But tarry here to-night,And I will hear the answer of the Lord.’And then God sent a sign, the like of whichI, who know all the faces of the night,And am familiar with all stars that shineOver the hills and plains of Pethor-land,Have never seen before, a sign which said:‘Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.’Or more or less than God commandeth meI cannot do. Am I in this to blame?”And then the wind came sweeping down the hills,And Balaam heard again the mocking cry,“If these man call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”And though he shuddered, all his face grew darkAnd knotted, as he said, “God doth not lie,But—doth God mock? Hath he not sent a signTo me, who have the power of reading signs,His own high gift? And now—and now, O God!If thou wouldst send me yet another sign—!”And here the whisper of the still, small voiceCame back, “O, Balaam! wretched is their fate,Who, knowing good from evil, choose not good,Or suffer evil, howsoever fair,To make the good less lovely in their eyes!Full well thou knowest that thy heart is setMore on the gold of Balak than God’s will.God doth not mock. ’Tis thou that mockest Him,Coming into His presence, full of lust,And seeking for a sign. If thou wert pureNo sign were needed. Being as thou art,Wert thou to offer up the land’s whole wealth,Oxen and rams, and corn, and wine, and oil,And all the first-born of thy kings, no signWould purge thee of those sordid dreams that dragThy soul from God to hell!It is not yet too late,Perhaps, and but perhaps!O, Balaam, rouse thee!Thou art, e’en yet, God’s prophet! He has shewnHis will to none more clearly than to thee.What is it He requireth at thy hands?Be true and honest, pure and merciful,Having thy heart aflame with faith and love,Still walking humbly, as though prone to fall—Guarding thine eyes from covetous wanderings,Deeming God’s gifts more beautiful than man’s—And he will keep thee right in all thy ways.Oh! what is Balak’s honour, Balak’s gold,To Balaam, if the Highest be his friend,Who owns the wealth and beauty of the world?Balaam, if these men call thee, do not go.”And Balaam bowed himself unto the ground,And lay upon his face in misery;And in his heart an awful battle raged,Where evil fought with good. Longtime he lay,As one entranced, all motionless, but full,Through every nerve, of wakeful, painful life.And then he rose, as from his grave, so paleAnd wild his visage; and he looked again,Along the waste, towards the western sky,But saw no sign, save that the stars grew dim,And some were gone; and, even as he looked,He seemed to hear from all the waking earth,Borne through the gloaming on the mountain wind,The words he loved and longed for and yet loathed,“Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.”

And once again a shudder shook his frame;And once again he bowed him to the earth,And lay upon his face in misery,Until, from weariness, he fell asleep.

And as he slept, he dreamed he was a childAnd heard sweet music, soft as is the breezeThat steals through corn-fields on a summer’s day,And makes the flowers kiss sweetly, and the leavesOn every tree grow tremulous for joy.

And then there came a noble, swelling strain,Like the grand chorus of victorious hostsThat still march on to victory; and he heard,And was a man, with men—a king of men,With crown of inspiration on his brow.Around him thronged the chiefs of Pethor-landAnd others, from afar, who came to hearThe wisdom God had given to his lips.But he was still as humble as the childThat played of yore amid the flowers, and drewFrom their sweet breath the beauty of the good.And as he spoke, they listened to his wordsAs to an angel’s: for his words were wise,Wiser than all the wisdom of the East.

Then came a discord, as a sound of wavesThat dash against tall rocks, while drowning menTry vainly to be heard. And Balaam grewProud with the pride of vain and worldly men,And thought within his heart how great he was,Forgetting who had made him wise and great;And thought of all the homage and the giftsYielded to him by princes of all lands,Till his heart turned to evil more than good.

Then came a sound of battle and wild cries,The blare of trumpets, and the clash of swords,And the fierce neigh of war-steeds, and the groansOf dying men,—and Balaam lay with these,Far from the hills and streams of Pethor-land.And, as he lay, he heard an awful voice,High o’er the din of battle, and the words,“If these men call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”And Balaam woke; and on the Eastern hillsBeheld the ruddy blossom of the dayBursting from out the sapphire of the sky;And all the earth looked pure as when it rose,At first, in beauty, from the primal sea,And all the heavenly hosts sang songs of joy.

But still the night lingered in Balaam’s soul,And all the pleasant voices of the morn,With which, erstwhile, he joined in hymns of praise,Were buried, as all hues are lost in black,In the dark horrors of one fatal cry,“If these men call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”

And fainter was the whisper than before,And Balaam heard it not, or heeded not,As with slow steps—as one who walks in chains—And head bowed low upon his breast, he movedHomeward to where the princes waited him.

And Balaam told them not of sign or dream,But only made him ready for the road.And ere the sun was half-way up the sky,Both he and they were far upon the wasteThat stretched towards Moab,—and he nevermoreBeheld the hills and streams of Pethor-land.

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