| |
| “ROOM for the leper! room!” And, as he came, | |
| The cry passed on—“Room for the leper! Room!” | |
| Sunrise was slanting on the city gates | |
| Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills | |
| The early risen poor were coming in, | 5 |
| Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up | |
| Rose the sharp hammer’s clink and the far hum | |
| Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, | |
| And all that in a city murmur swells— | |
| Unheard but by the watcher’s weary ear, | 10 |
| Aching with night’s dull silence, or the sick | |
| Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase | |
| The death-like images of the dark away. | |
| “Room for the leper!” And aside they stood— | |
| Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood—all | 15 |
| Who met him on his way—and let him pass. | |
| And onward through the open gate he came, | |
| A leper, with the ashes on his brow, | |
| Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip | |
| A covering, stepping painfully and slow, | 20 |
| And with a difficult utterance, like one | |
| Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, | |
Crying, “Unclean! unclean!”
’Twas now the first | |
| Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, | |
| Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, | 25 |
| Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye | |
| Of Judah’s palmiest noble. He was young, | |
| And eminently beautiful, and life | |
| Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, | |
| And sparkled in his glance; and in his mien | 30 |
| There was a gracious pride that every eye | |
| Followed with benisons—and this was he! | |
| With the soft airs of summer there had come | |
| A torpor on his frame, which not the speed | |
| Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast | 35 |
| Of the bold huntsman’s horn, nor aught that stirs | |
| The spirit to its bent, might drive away. | |
| The blood beat not as wont within his veins; | |
| Dimness crept o’er his eye: a drowsy sloth | |
| Fettered his limbs like palsy, and his mien, | 40 |
| With all its loftiness, seem’d struck with eld. | |
| Even his voice was changed; a languid moan | |
| Taking the place of the clear silver key; | |
| And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light | |
| And very air were steeped in sluggishness. | 45 |
| He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, | |
| Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein | |
| Slacken’d within his grasp, and in its poise | |
| The arrowy jeered like an aspen shook. | |
| Day after day, he lay, as if in sleep. | 50 |
| His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, | |
| Circled with livid purple, cover’d him. | |
| And then his nails grew black, and fell away | |
| From the dull flesh about them, and the hues | |
| Deepen’d beneath the hard unmoisten’d scales, | 55 |
| And from their edges grew the rank white hair, | |
—And Helon was a leper!
Day was breaking, | |
| When at the altar of the temple stood | |
| The holy priest of God. The incense lamp | |
| Burn’d with a struggling light, and a low chant | 60 |
| Swell’d through the hollow arches of the roof | |
| Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, | |
| Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. | |
| The echoes of the melancholy strain | |
| Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, | 65 |
| Struggling with weakness, and bow’d down his head | |
| Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off | |
| His costly raiment for the leper’s garb: | |
| And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip | |
| Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, | 70 |
| Waiting to hear his doom:— | |
| |
| Depart! depart, O child | |
| Of Israel, from the temple of thy God! | |
| For He has smote thee with His chastening rod; | |
| And to the desert-wild, | 75 |
| From all thou lov’st away, thy feet must flee, | |
| That from thy plague His people may be free. | |
| |
| Depart! and come not near | |
| The busy mart, the crowded city, more; | |
| Nor set thy foot a human threshold o’er; | 80 |
| And stay thou not to hear | |
| Voices that call thee in the way; and fly | |
| From all who in the wilderness pass by. | |
| |
| Wet not thy burning lip | |
| In streams that to a human dwelling glide; | 85 |
| Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; | |
| Nor kneel thee down to dip | |
| The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, | |
| By desert well or river’s grassy brink; | |
| |
| And pass thou not between | 90 |
| The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; | |
| And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees | |
| Where human tracks are seen; | |
| Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, | |
| Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. | 95 |
| |
| And now, depart! and when | |
| Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, | |
| Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him | |
| Who, from the tribes of men, | |
| Selected thee to feel His chastening rod, | 100 |
| Depart! O Leper, and forget not God! | |
| |
| And he went forth—alone! not one of all | |
| The many whom he loved, nor she whose name | |
| Was woven in the fibres of the heart | |
| Breaking within him now, to come and speak | 105 |
| Comfort unto him. Yea—he went his way, | |
| Sick, and heart-broken, and alone—to die! | |
For God had cursed the leper!
It was noon, | |
| And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool | |
| In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, | 110 |
| Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched | |
| The loathsome water to his fever’d lips, | |
| Praying that he might be so blest—to die! | |
| Footsteps approach’d, and with no strength to flee, | |
| He drew the covering closer on his lip, | 115 |
| Crying, “Unclean! unclean!” and in the folds | |
| Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, | |
| He fell upon the earth till they should pass. | |
| Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o’er | |
| The leper’s prostrate form, pronounced his name— | 120 |
| “Helon!” The voice was like the master-tone | |
| Of a rich instrument—most strangely sweet; | |
| And the dull pulses of disease awoke, | |
| And for a moment beat beneath the hot | |
| And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. | 125 |
| “Helon! arise!” and he forgot his curse, | |
And rose and stood before Him.
Love and awe | |
| Mingled in the regard of Helen’s eye | |
| As he beheld the Stranger. He was not | |
| In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow | 130 |
| The symbol of a princely lineage wore; | |
| No followers at His back, nor in His hand | |
| Buckler, or sword, or spear,—yet in His mien | |
| Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, | |
| A kingly condescension graced His lips, | 135 |
| The lion would have crouch’d to in his lair. | |
| His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; | |
| His stature modell’d with a perfect grace; | |
| His countenance, the impress of a God, | |
| Touch’d with the open innocence of a child; | 140 |
| His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky | |
| In the serenest noon; His hair unshorn | |
| Fell to His shoulders; and his curling beard | |
| The fulness of perfected manhood bore. | |
| He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, | 145 |
| As if His heart were moved, and stooping down, | |
| He took a little water in His hand, | |
| And laved the sufferer’s brow, and said, “Be clean,” | |
| And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood | |
| Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, | 150 |
| And his dry palms grew moist, and his lips | |
| The dewy softness of an infant’s stole, | |
| His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down | |
| Prostrate at Jesus’ feet and worshipped Him. | |
| |
