Chapter VIII.
It was a weary thing to bear the burden
Of that restless and rebellious race. With
Sinai’s thunders almost crashing in their ears,
They made a golden calf, and in the desert
Spread an idol’s feast, and sung the merry songs
They had heard when Mizraim’s songs bowed down before
Their vain and heathen gods; and thus for many years
Did Moses bear the evil manners of his race—
Their angry murmurs, fierce regrets and strange
Forgetfulness of God. Born slaves, they did not love
The freedom of the wild more than their pots of flesh.
And pleasant savory things once gathered
From the gardens of the Nile.
If slavery only laid its weight of chains
Upon the weary, aching limbs, e’en then
It were a curse; but when it frets through nerve
And flesh and eats into the weary soul,
Oh then it is a thing for every human
Heart to loathe, and this was Israel’s fate,
For when the chains were shaken from their limbs
They failed to strike the impress from their souls
While he who’d basked beneath the radiance
Of a throne, ne’er turned regretful eyes upon
The past, nor sighed to grasp again the pleasures
Once resigned; but the saddest trial was
To see the light and joy fade from their faces
When the faithless spies spread through their camp
Their ill report; and when the people wept
In hopeless unbelief and turned their faces
Egyptward, and asked a captain from their bands
To lead them back where they might bind anew
Their broken chains, when God arose and shut
The gates of promise on their lives, and left
Their bones to bleach beneath Arabia’s desert sands
But though they slumbered in the wild, they died
With broader freedom on their lips, and for their
Little ones did God reserve the heritage
So rudely thrust aside.