Chapter 3

He raised the gem before the flaming sun; The rays concentered, and the flames burst forth As leaping to their master. 'Twas enough. The multitude, in thought, became as one. And all, save Kohen, sank upon their knees; And whispers of relief, fell on the breeze. They were as pliant clay in Uri's hands, And hung upon the breath of his commands: "Pour forth your homage, chosen of the sun, Once more his warmth encloses; and we feel Responsive throbbings of his fatherhood. Rise and rejoice!" Their ready voices raise From lips, new touched in unison of praise.

Old Kohen was confounded at the first. He had not thought it possible, to bring Fire from the sun, or any mortal thing; No shadow of its secret on him burst; But he had heard of sorcery and arts Among the sons of Mizraim, and not long Before the lion of his nature starts, In cold defiance of the clamorous throng, To slay his offering; and his lips poured out The very thunder-throe of earnest prayer; A fervency that would not harbor doubt, That ever is a stranger to despair. Long, earnest, loud and fervently, he prayed; And his gray locks ensilvering the breeze, Gave pathos, to the torrent thus unstayed; Yet, not for self, did he the angel seize; But wrestled for his people thus misled. "Unscale their eyes, O Father!" so he pled. "Unstop their ears, O thou, All Powerful One That they may hear thy footfall on the wind. Come in thy flame, and purge them with thy fire. Strike off the fetters from their prisoned souls! Make me an offering for their flagrant sins, And I will bare my bosom to the knife, And bend my neck in cheerfulness to thee, So thou wilt save my people from the hand Of this misguided witch of Mizraim!" His prayer had hardly ceased, ere shot the flame, From upper zenith, down, and in one glow, Pierced the whole altar with impetuous claim, And lapped the other with its overflow. The crowd, transfixed with wonder at the scene, Could hardly trust the witness of their eyes, And held divided counsels, till the King Quenching the current of their late surprise, Poured his recruited anger on Kohen.

"Why longer parley, with a thing so plain? Old Kohen had no warrant for this deed; The palm was Uri's who did rightly gain Fire from the sun, to him alone, we plead; He drew it first, old Kohen must admit, And he should paid due homage to our god; And from what source did his become enlit? "We serve no phantom, with its hidden nod, But look upon the face of him we serve; The sun has kept his fire for us these years, And we, his children, never can deserve His untold blessings; though our prayers and tears, Should mingle with each altar that we raise In all the future ages, still our debt Will always be uncancelled by our praise And all our past be covered with regret. We want no juggling on this sacred day, That gives us back the father, we had lost. Bind old Kohen, and hasten him away, He shall repay his treachery with cost. To-morrow shall another altar grace This precious grove, made sacred to the sun, And Kohen shall be offered in this place, To pay the sacrilege he had begun."

In thy own way our Father; we must wait So many times, because we cannot see; Yet thou alone canst bring us to the gate, How slowly do we learn to trust in thee! Yet, in withholding, are the blessings hid, As frequent as in giving; all our prayers If they result in doing but thy bid, Will scatter diamond dust above our cares. The gray old Prophet murmured: "Let God's will Be done, and in abeyance I will bare my breast, "I will not doubt him though indeed he kill, His chosen way must surely be the best."

The morrow came and at the King's command The multitude assembled, and the guard Brought forth the Prophet, looking proudly grand As some great warrior claiming his reward Of beys and laurels, wreathed into a crown; They rear the pile and he awaits his doom Without a menace, and without a frown. Then turning to the press: "I will assume Your hearts are mine, my sons, I know it well; Your eyes beheld the witness of our God, And greatly were ye moved; but 'tis his will That I should join my fathers in that land, Where canker and corruption never comes, The why, and wherefore of it, is his own; I bow my head in thankfulness to him, That he has deemed me worthy to exchange A life of sorrow for a crown of love.

"Ye are the servants of an earthly King, And God has suffered him to lead you off, His will be done; but I must tell you now Your future as I read it in the glass Of my illumined death: "I see the black Of Mizraim, sweep the brown of Lud from off The face of Egypt; and I also see A wandering race, go northward, and to east; I see a bitter wintering of snow; I see the sun hide back his face from them; I see a boisterous buffeting at sea; I see a journey southward--a new world."

"And centuries flow swiftly on my sight. A people proudly resting in their wealth; The Son of God, in the full flight of years; The conquest of the nations in his name. A proud and prosperous people cross the sea And swoop upon this nation of the sun; Their temples crumble in the hand of God And he takes back his own. All this I see As what cannot avert; it is God's way, And wisdom is the wastage of his throne. He cannot order wrongly; I submit My wasting image to his waiting hands: "Come Father! I am ready."

He raised him to the pile; with look divine, He prone himself upon it; at the sign The Prophet Uri raised the crystal stone; The sun threw down its rays, and shot the flame Full to the center; as the altar shone, Each eye was turned, and every voice was tame, As down the chancel of the deep blue sky, A flaming chariot sped, and came a cry: "It is enough, come higher up; thou shalt Not suffer death." A hand, not human, caught The grand old Prophet; his recumbent form Rose on their dazzled sight as rainbow in the storm.

Thus was the error fixed; and it is well We leave them to their blindness for a while. Misguided worship, left alone, will tell Its own pathetic story: there is guile To underlie each sorrow of the race. Fruit comes alone from seed; somewhere is sown The germ of every grief, and nature on its face Bears no repentant feature; as we plant, so shall the tree be grown.

EXPULSION FROM EGYPT.

The seasons pass, till on their hands they count Four palms, and to the third, a score and three In life's meridian how the circles mount That measure our existence, if there be No canker worm that clogs the ready wheel; If care hangs not upon the skirts of time; And if, like most mankind, we only feel Its gentle passing, by the hills we climb In ambling, easy way, and retrospect Surprises into thought, and we wake up To feel how swift we journey. We reflect After reflection barrens of its fruit, the cup Which we have mixed we drink; if it be gall We gulp it down the same; we cannot change The current of our lives, and useless is the call On any but the hand of God. 'Tis strange The miracle of life should ever pass And print no letters deep into the soul! The years go by, and, but the tuft of grass More reverent than we, tells o'er our dust its rosary, in deep green scroll.

MIZRAIM AND LUD.

Near the rim of Karoun, where the pyramids drink the dew that should dampen the soil; And the Nilus pours over its green level banks, its annual freightage of spoil; Where the date ripens dark to the child of the sun, and the pomegranate colors for fruit; The ibis is sounding the damps of the land, and earth in its plethory mute.

The fat of the fields husks the voice of the morn, while Demeter is weighing her sheaves; The lotus has honied its lips for the kiss, "and the turtle in mockery grieves." What is that, where the Orient gathers her gold, and the eye wanders back to the sea? What cloud on the horizon's breach can be seen? What wakens the vulture's rude glee?

'Tis the shock of the battle that burdens the air, and the armies that burden the eye; They have met (could Elysian give landscape more fair?), have met to embrace and to die. The Prophet still lives, and has led to the sun all Egypt; and gathered as one The people to hallow the harvest-moon feast, ere the work of the year is done.

But Mizraim outnumbers the children of Lud, and the shepherd kings, crafty and weak, Have laid tasks on their shoulders too heavy to bear, till the voice of their burden must speak. In vain the gray Prophet lifts up to his god his winglet of prayer for peace; The tempest of war has broke over the plain, and his altars can bring no surcease.

The black and the bronze, the iron and brass; how they struggle and grip for the field! The spear and the arrow, the halbert and lance, and who shall be first to yield? Not the iron; it is strong and resistless in weight. Not the brass; it is beaten and firm. What a hecate of agony burdens the plain! what a banquet for vulture and worm! But the iron is too heavy, the brass is too thin, and under the weight it gives way, As a wall, that is breached and toppled by time; and Mizraim gains the day.

Oppression, when reversed, is double weight; The Slave pours lead into the lash he bore; And, as the Master adds recruited hate To blows, that he has learned to feel before, The soul its letters of forgiveness learns From only one great Master, in all time; Revenge is human, and forever burns Upon the trackway of retreating crime. The text and testwork of their lives was lost; And when the King was slain, and they o'erthrown, His people paid their tyranny with cost.

Only the Prophet, with his magic stone, Could purchase their withdrawal; they must leave (They were the early jewels of the sun) And Uri pledged their fortunes to retrieve, If they would journey, where the day begun, And seek the closer presence of their god, In paths where human feet had never trod. They must divide with Egypt; but go out Well laden for the journey; should they dare To turn, the heavy hand of Mizraim would not spare.

Ægyptus! thou above thy gates hath writ So many times the monosylbic "when." We, weary of conjecture; round us flit The phantoms of the past; and we again Pass in review thy pages, black with mold; Intemporate within a crumbling earth, Against the char of empires thou dost hold The charms that emulate immortal birth. We write mutation on the brow of Time; Thou art the changeless one of all the world-- Thou hast no brotherhood in any clime; All mortal barbets have in vain been hurled.

"Time conquers all things?" Thou giv'st back the lie; Above its ruins, thou dost stand, serene-- Eternity!--Must thou, perforce, then die? What tragedy hast thou, indeed, not seen? Must thou, too, look on death? thou wilt not dim; But in impassive slumber, thou wilt fall As sinks the sun, beneath the horizon's rim, And answer only the Archangel's call. We leave thee loathely, for our souls are wed To thy enchanted gardenhood of lore. "The morning stars sang joy" above thy bed, The nations, in their cerements, shall pass thy door, And earth be wrapped in ashes ere thy brow shall bear the fatal legend, "Nevermore."

THE MOURNING SHEPHERDS

The tambour' is silent, O god of the Nile! The harp has been hung in acacian shade. We are bowed to the earth, we are broken and bent, And the blade of our fathers in dust has been laid.

We came, as the simoom creeps over the plain; We came, as the tiger its covert forsakes; As the hurricane brushes the dust from the brakes; As the lightning leaps out and the thunder-god shakes.

We are shorn of our strength as with plague we are smote; The axe has been wrenched from the hands that are brawn, And the arms whose strong sinews till now were unbent Have been broken as brittles; our prowess is gone.

O! thou bright shining god! with thy scintles of gold; If thy children have gathered the glow of thy face, If thy kisses, ere warmed to the lips that are cold, O we pray! let us feel thy impassioned embrace.

We are journeying forth to the cradle of morn, Where thy lids feel the weight of their slumbering still; We would kneel at thy bed where the seasons are born, And learn from thy lips the whole law of thy will.

Have we sinned in thy sight? have we slackened our pace? Are we paying the forfeit in wormwood of shame? We draw nearer to thee, and our lives we would place In the hands of the Maker, that out of thy flame

We may gather that fire that shall glow with thy love; And will never grow dim through the future of years, That shall make us like thee, and our fealty prove 'Till we learn to forget this dark trackhood of tears.

As we turn to the East, wilt thou smile on our way? Wilt thou lessen the distance between us and thee? Or our hearts remain hungry, the shadow still stay With its wizard arm lifted to smite as we flee.

We doubt thee no longer--we know thou wilt aid; We turn to the path where thy morning rays shine; We will seek thy first footfall, and all unafraid, We feel thee, we love thee, we know we are thine.

We leave the old life, with the graves of our kin, We turn from the sunset of dampness and death, We turn where the light with its god doth begin, And the praise of the day-king embalms every breath;

Where the sun slakes his thirst with the dew of the flowers, Where the night flees before him far into the west, Where the honey-dew clings to the fruit-laden hours, Where the soul sets its table, with Joy as its guest.

So does our faith stand out against our grief; So does our hope grow up into belief. One God? Yes, Father, Thou! and only One. We praise thee; yet, our praise is only done, When we extol thee for the gift of faith. Not every one can name thee; but each breath May be enladen with the thought of praise And all adore thy attributes--the ways That they adore thee are not always thine; Yet, do they bend to thy great thoroughfare and shine With light from the Eternal throne; 'tis well, Nor otherwise than good--it can but swell The choral of thy praise; and in the end These thousand thoughts of Deity, in thee, not fail to blend.

THE JOURNEY.

O thou! who charmed the demons in the breast Of Saul, and set the universal voice Of all the earth to thy unflagging song; Thou royal shepherd! bend for us across The bridge of ages thy leant lips, and pour The echo of thy music on our souls.

And Thou of Nazareth! whose very life Was as the cadence of a well-strung harp, Thyself the instrument, upon whose strings, Ten thousand symphonies are left entranced; Pour in the empty vial of our verse, Some of thy soul of music, and let shine Through every darkened crevice of the heart, Rays of celestial sunshine. Not in vain Our humble dalliance, if thou set the charm Of thine approval. Let our song be praise And devotate our hands, that there be left No tissue, but is animate of Thee!

The seas reach out to clasp each other's hands, The greater and the less, and leap the sands That tear in two their waters; but not so She of the Nile; her rights will not forego. The hand that rocks the crib of empire holds A charm, that locks the East and West in one The track of nations is her beaten path, And undisputed, till the earth be done. Man may disturb it, but the hand of God Has placed a thousand tokens on this sod.

The flocks are gathered, and the flight began, Old Uri and attendants in the van; The portents were of good as far as seen, Each breast a shrine of hope; thus early man Gave little time to sorrow--after years Were left for its fruition; light of heart, These early-planted germlets of the earth, Took their reverses in the better part Of hardihood; they had thus early learned, That in the chafe of fortune there is gain; That scars are coronets, though they be burned Deep in the brow of care; each gem a pain. Our philosophic age with heavy draught, Drinks deep in phantasies, but fails to learn The wiser lesson of this early craft, To catch the wheel of fortune with each turn.

East over Syria they bent their steps, Meeting Euphrates many leagues above Where Babylon since molded into form Her mystical proportions; and so strove Persistently the mastery of earth. Crossing the Tigris but a span below, Where Taurus from his fountains feeds the stream, They traverse Persia with its after-glow Of conquest; where Ispahan gave touch, To chords that deify the voice of song, And mellow through the ages, if so much As but an echo would inspire the tongue, With that enchantment, that rolls down the course Of her great history. We seek in vain Another Cyrus, or another force Of Scripture fulfillment, with lesser pain, And Time's repleted garner has no riper grain.

Still East they cross the Amoo, and above Where now, Bokhara's languor and repose Invites the Sclavic hordes in summer quest Of forage. And Belor, giant like, still throws Its shadow o'er the landscape; and the Koosh Shortens the noon of summer, from the South; A thousand sparkling torrents downward rush, And pour their waste of waters in the mouth Of Indus. They cross where Belor melts its snow, To placid Cashgar's arms, sending below A current to the waste of farther Nor. They stand on Cobis' southern girt, and drink The final retrospective of the West; And keep the gloomy borders to the brink Of far-off Koulon, where the Argoon lends Its mite of wastage to the vast Amour; And the impetuous Shilka, swiftly sends Its tribute to the master of Mantchoor.

One winter they had spent upon the way, Within the vale of Cashgar, where the flocks Found generous herbage; but they could not stay Longer than opening spring, when from the rocks And passes of the Koosh, a savage tribe Came fiercely on them; and again the fire From Uri's sacred pebble, as a bribe Saved them from ruin, and the warlike ire Of Lama's devotees, for even then On upper Ind, his worship had begun; But superstition, ranks us all as men, And mystery doth mold us into one. The Argoon and the Shilka passed; they keep Their steady march, down Armour's limpid tide. Yet summer wastes to autumn. Seasons creep So noiselessly, that our souls are open wide, If we set watch upon them; unaware They find us napping, in our wakeful age; And how much more, in the unrisen sun Of ancient man! We wonder that the page Is not more blurred and blotted in the years That are far gone, when knowledge only bubbled up through tears.

A Winter on the Amour near the sea; The Frost King strokes his heavy beard in glee, In surfeit of his triumph, o'er the foe That dares invade his borders; and the snow Scatters its fleecy fullness o'er the land, Hiding the face of Nature with its hand So cold and clasping. O 'tis very hard! To see familiar faces pass the ward Of our immediate contact, and the earth Draw back into its arms, with tightening girth Our loved ones. But 'tis a heavier lot To see our mother Earth, whose faithful breast Has never failed to aid; so chilled in death That it cannot respond, though it be rest, Recuperent and needful; still the same When we are starving for its warm caress, And cannot spare its nursing, when our claim Is mortal, and we feel the strong hand press Our vitals; and we labor for our breath; And Famine lends its wizard hand, to fill the tooth of death.

Old Uri vainly calls the shining god; Though it may light his altar, still the flame Is but a weakling; and the weary host Were wrangling at his impotence, and tame His efforts to assuage them. He had taught His followers of a near approach; the sun Seemed coy of his endeavors, for the thought Of zone or solstice, had not then begun, And Winter was their time of penance, when Their god rode low, and frowned him out of sight. They offered for his anger many gifts, And set their watchmen to outwake the night. In question of his rising. Why should he Keep so much closer the horizon's rim When they were in his quest, and sought the verge Of farthest empire, in their reach of him? O empty arms! and ever reaching out, Fold in the blessings that your hands enclose. There is nor reason, nor excuse for doubt, The river of God's love so near you flows. Your very feet are on the water's brink, His very arms are all around you thrown, You touch him in your timidness, and shrink To his embraces; no human soul was ever yet alone.