| |
| THERE fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees, | |
| Reft of their coronals, and the crisp vines, | |
| And flowers whose dewless bosoms sought the dust, | |
| Mourned the long drought. The miserable herds | |
| Pined on, and perished mid the scorching fields, | 5 |
| And near the vanished fountains where they used | |
| Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks | |
Laid their parched mouths, and died.
A holy man, | |
| Who saw high visions of unuttered things, | |
| Dwelt in deep-musing solitude apart | 10 |
| Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark-winged birds, | |
| Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved | |
| To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, | |
| And night and morning lay their gathered spoils | |
| Down at his feet. So of the brook he drank, | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| Where a pale, drooping widow, in the depth | |
| Of desolate and hopeless poverty, | |
| Prepared the last, scant morsel for her son, | |
That he might eat and die.
The man of God, | |
| Entering, requested food. Whether that germ | 25 |
| Of self-denying fortitude, which stirs | |
| Sometimes in woman’s soul, and nerves it strong | |
| For life’s severe and unapplauded tasks, | |
| Sprang up at his appeal, or whether he | |
| Who ruled the ravens wrought within her heart, | 30 |
| I cannot say, but to the stranger’s hand | |
| She gave the bread. Then, round the famished boy | |
| Clasping her widowed arms, she strained him close | |
| To her wan bosom, while his hollow eye | |
| Wondering and wishfully regarded her | 35 |
With ill-subdued reproach.
A blessing fell | |
| From the majestic guest, and every morn | |
| The empty store which she had wept at eve, | |
| Mysteriously replenished, woke the joy | |
| That ancient Israel felt when round their camp | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| 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 star-girt throne, | |
| Uttered a heathen’s gratitude, and hailed | 50 |
| In the deep chorus of Zidonian song | |
“Astarte, queen of Heaven!”
But then there came | |
| A day of woe. That gentle boy, in whom | |
| His mother lived, for whom alone she deemed | |
| Time’s weary heritage a blessing, died. | 55 |
| 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 | 60 |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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 | |
| The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning’s dart, | 70 |
| And soon, from death escaping, was to soar | |
| On car of flame up to the throne of God, | |
| Long, long, with laboring breast and lifted eyes, | |
| Solicited in anguish. On the dead | |
| Once more the prophet gazed. A rigor seemed | 75 |
| To settle on those features, and the hand, | |
| In its immovable coldness, told how firm | |
| Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave. | |
| The awful seer laid down his humble lip | |
| Low to the earth, and his whole being seemed | 80 |
| With concentrated agony to pour | |
| Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife | |
| Of intercession. Who shall dare to set | |
| Limits to prayer, if it hath entered heaven, | |
| And won a spirit down to its dense robe | 85 |
Of earth again?
Look! look upon the boy! | |
| There was a trembling of the parted lip, | |
| A sob,—a shiver,—from the half-sealed eye | |
| A flash like morning,—and the soul came back | |
To its frail tenement.
The prophet raised | 90 |
| The renovated child, and on that breast | |
| Which gave the life-stream of its infancy | |
Laid the fair head once more.
If ye would know | |
| Aught of that wildering trance of ecstasy, | |
| Go ask a mother’s heart, but question not | 95 |
| So poor a thing as language. Yet the soul | |
| Of her of Zarephath, in that blest hour | |
| Believed, and with the kindling glow of faith | |
| Turned from vain idols to the living God. | |
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