CONTENTS.

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND,

IN MEMORIAM.

1859.

1860.

1861.

1862.

[ THE MAN OF UZ. ]

A joyous festival.—

The gathering back

Of scattered flowrets to the household wreath.

Brothers and sisters from their sever'd homes

Meeting with ardent smile, to renovate

The love that sprang from cradle memories

And childhood's sports, and whose perennial stream

Still threw fresh crystals o'er the sands of life.

—Each bore some treasured picture of the past,

Some graphic incident, by mellowing time

Made beautiful, while ever and anon,

Timbrel and harp broke forth, each pause between.

Banquet and wine-cup, and the dance, gave speed

To youthful spirits, and prolong'd the joy.

The patriarch father, with a chasten'd heart

Partook his children's mirth, having God's fear

Ever before him. Earnestly he brought

His offerings and his prayers for every one

Of that beloved group, lest in the swell

And surging superflux of happiness

They might forget the Hand from whence it came,

Perchance, displease the Almighty.

Many a care

Had he that wealth creates. Not such as lurks

In heaps metallic, which the rust corrodes,

But wealth that fructifies within the earth

Whence cometh bread, or o'er its surface roves

In peaceful forms of quadrupedal life

That thronging round the world's first father came

To take their names, 'mid Eden's tranquil shades,

Ere sin was born.

Obedient to the yoke,

Five hundred oxen turn'd the furrow'd glebe

Where agriculture hides his buried seed

Waiting the harvest hope, while patient wrought

An equal number of that race who share

The labor of the steed, without his praise.

—Three thousand camels, with their arching necks,

Ships of the desert, knelt to do his will,

And bear his surplus wealth to distant climes,

While more than twice three thousand snowy sheep

Whitened the hills. Troops of retainers fed

These flocks and herds, and their subsistence drew

From the same lord,—so that this man of Uz

Greater than all the magnates of the east,

Dwelt in old time before us.

True he gave,

And faithfully, the hireling his reward,

Counting such justice 'mid the happier forms

Of Charity, which with a liberal hand

He to the sad and suffering poor dispensed.

Eyes was he to the blind, and to the lame

Feet, while the stranger and the traveller found

Beneath, the welcome shelter of his roof

The blessed boon of hospitality.

To him the fatherless and widow sought

For aid and counsel. Fearlessly he rose

For those who had no helper. His just mind

Brought stifled truth to light, disarm'd the wiles

Of power, and gave deliverance to the weak.

He pluck'd the victim from the oppressor's grasp,

And made the tyrant tremble.

To his words

Men listened, as to lore oracular,

And when beside the gate he took his seat

The young kept silence, and the old rose up

To do him honor. After his decree

None spake again, for as a prince he dwelt

Wearing the diadem of righteousness,

And robed in that respect which greatness wins

When leagued with goodness, and by wisdom crown'd.

The grateful prayers and blessings of the souls

Ready to perish, silently distill'd

Upon him, as he slept.

So as a tree

Whose root is by the river's brink, he grew

And flourish'd, while the dews like balm-drops hung

All night upon his branches.

Yet let none

Of woman born, presume to build his hopes

On the worn cliff of brief prosperity,

Or from the present promise, predicate

The future joy. The exulting bird that sings

Mid the green curtains of its leafy nest

His tuneful trust untroubled there to live,

And there to die, may meet the archer's shaft

When next it spreads the wing.

The tempest folds

O'er the smooth forehead of the summer noon

Its undiscover'd purpose, to emerge

Resistless from its armory, and whelm

In floods of ruin, ere the day decline.

Lightning and sword!

Swift messengers, and sharp,

Reapers that leave no gleanings. In their path

Silence and desolation fiercely stalk.

—O'er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain'd plains

There is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks,

The fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain.

The Man of Uz, who stood but yestermorn

Above all compeers,—clothed with wealth and power,

To day is poorer than his humblest hind.

A whirlwind from the desert!

All unwarn'd

Its fury came. Earth like a vassal shook.

Majestic trees flew hurtling through the air

Like rootless reeds.

There was no time for flight.

Buried in household wrecks, all helpless lay

Masses of quivering life.

Job's eldest son

That day held banquet for their numerous line

At his own house. With revelry and song,

One moment in the glow of kindred hearts

The lordly mansion rang, the next they lay

Crush'd neath its ruins.

He,—the childless sire,

Last of his race, and lonely as the pine

That crisps and blackens 'neath the lightning shaft

Upon the cliff, with such a rushing tide

The mountain billows of his misery came,

Drove they not Reason from her beacon-hold?

Swept they not his strong trust in Heaven away?

List,—list,—the sufferer speaks.

"The Lord who gave

Hath taken away,—and blessed be His name."

Oh Patriarch!—teach us, mid this changeful life

Not to mistake the ownership of joys

Entrusted to us for a little while,

But when the Great Dispenser shall reclaim

His loans, to render them with praises back,

As best befits the indebted.

Should a tear

Moisten the offering, He who knows our frame

And well remembereth that we are but dust,

Is full of pity.

It was said of old

Time conquer'd Grief. But unto me it seems

That Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wide

The chasm between us, and our smitten joys

And saps the strength wherewith at first we went

Into life's battle. We perchance, have dream'd

That the sweet smile the sunbeam of our home

The prattle of the babe the Spoiler seiz'd,

Had but gone from us for a little while,—

And listen'd in our fallacy of hope

At hush of eve for the returning step

That wake the inmost pulses of the heart

To extasy,—till iron-handed Grief

Press'd down the nevermore into our soul,

Deadening us with its weight.

The man of Uz

As the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'd

The desolation of his poverty

Felt every nerve that at the first great shock

Was paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink

As from a fresh-cut wound. There was no son

To come in beauty of his manly prime

With words of counsel and with vigorous hand

To aid him in his need, no daughter's arm

To twine around him in his weariness,

Nor kiss of grandchild at the even-tide

Going to rest, with prayer upon its lips.

Still a new trial waits.

The blessed health

Heaven's boon, thro' which with unbow'd form we bear

Burdens and ills, forsook him. Maladies

Of fierce and festering virulence attack'd

His swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding pains

Laid his strength prostrate, till he counted life

A loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleep

That sweet restorer of the wasted frame,

And mid his tossings to and fro, he moan'd

Oh, when shall I arise, and Night be gone!

Despondence seized him. To the lowliest place

Alone he stole, and sadly took his seat

In dust and ashes.

She, his bosom friend

The sharer of his lot for many years,

Sought out his dark retreat. Shuddering she saw

His kingly form like living sepulchre,

And in the maddening haste of sorrow said

God hath forgotten.

She with him had borne

Unuttered woe o'er the untimely graves

Of all whom she had nourished,—shared with him

The silence of a home that hath no child,

The plunge from wealth to want, the base contempt

Of menial and of ingrate;—but to see

The dearest object of adoring love

Her next to God, a prey to vile disease

Hideous and loathsome, all the beauty marred

That she had worshipped from her ardent youth

Deeming it half divine, she could not bear,

Her woman's strength gave way, and impious words

In her despair she uttered.

But her lord

To deeper anguish stung by her defect

And rash advice, reprovingly replied

Pointing to Him who meeteth out below

Both good and evil in mysterious love,

And she was silenced.

What a sacred power

Hath hallow'd Friendship o'er the nameless ills

That throng our pilgrimage. Its sympathy,

Doth undergird the drooping, and uphold

The foot that falters in its miry path.

It grows more precious, as the hair grows grey.

Time's alchymy that rendereth so much dross

Back for our gay entrustments, shows more pure

The perfect essence of its sanctity,

Gold unalloyed.

How doth the cordial grasp,

Of hands that twined with ours in school days, now

Delight us as our sunbeam nears the west,

Soothing, perchance our self-esteem with proofs

That 'mid all faults the good have loved us still,

And quickening with redoubled energy

To do or suffer.

The three friends of Job

Who in the different regions where they dwelt

Teman, and Naamah and the Shuhite land,

Heard tidings of his dire calamity,

Moved by one impulse, journey'd to impart

Their sorrowing sympathy.

Yet when they saw

Him fallen so low, so chang'd that scarce a trace

Remained to herald his identity

Down by his side upon the earth, they sate

Uttering no language save the gushing tear,—

Spontaneous homage to a grief so great.

Oh Silence, born of Wisdom! we have felt

Thy fitness, when beside the smitten friend

We took our place. The voiceless sympathy

The tear, the tender pressure of the hand

Interpreted more perfectly than words

The purpose of our soul.

We speak to err,

Waking to agony some broken chord

Or bleeding nerve that slumbered. Words are weak,

When God's strong discipline doth try the soul;

And that deep silence was more eloquent

Than all the pomp of speech.

Yet the long pause

Of days and nights, gave scope for troubled thought

And their bewildered minds unskillfully

Launching all helmless on a sea of doubt

Explored the cause for which such woes were sent,

Forgetful that this mystery of life

Yields not to man's solution. Passing on

From natural pity to philosophy

That deems Heaven's judgments penal, they inferr'd

Some secret sin unshrived by penitence,

That drew such awful visitations down.

While studying thus the wherefore, with vain toil

Of painful cogitation, lo! a voice

Hollow and hoarse, as from the mouldering tomb,

"Perish the day in which I saw the light!

The day when first my mother's nursing care

Sheltered my helplessness. Let it not come

Into the number of the joyful months,

Let blackness stain it and the shades of death

Forever terrify it.

For it cut

Not off as an untimely birth my span,

Nor let me sleep where the poor prisoners hear

No more the oppressor, where the wicked cease

From troubling and the weary are at rest.

Now as the roar of waves my sorrows swell,

And sighs like tides burst forth till I forget

To eat my bread. That which I greatly feared

Hath come upon me. Not in heedless pride

Nor wrapped in arrogance of full content

I dwelt amid the tide of prosperous days,

And yet this trouble came."

With mien unmoved

The Temanite reprovingly replied:

"Who can refrain longer from words, even though

To speak be grief? Thou hast the instructor been

Of many, and their model how to act.

When trial came upon them, if their knees

Bow'd down, thou saidst, "be strong," and they obey'd.

But now it toucheth thee and thou dost shrink,

And murmuring, faint. The monitor forgets

The precepts he hath taught. Is this thy faith,

Thy confidence, the uprightness of thy way?

Whoever perish'd being innocent?

And when were those who walk'd in righteous ways

Cut off? How oft I've seen that those who sow

The seeds of evil secretly, and plow

Under a veil of darkness, reap the same.

In visions of the night, when deepest sleep

Falls upon men, fear seiz'd me, all my bones

Trembled, and every stiffening hair rose up.

A spirit pass'd before me, but I saw

No form thereof. I knew that there it stood,

Even though my straining eyes discern'd it not.

Then from its moveless lips a voice burst forth,

"Is man more just than God? Is mortal man

More pure than He who made him?

Lo, he puts

No trust in those who serve him, and doth charge

Angels with folly. How much less in them

Dwellers in tents of clay, whose pride is crush'd

Before the moth. From morn to eve they die

And none regard it."

So despise thou not

The chastening of the Almighty, ever just,

For did thy spirit please him, it should rise

More glorious from the storm-cloud, all the earth

At peace with thee, new offspring like the grass

Cheering thy home, and when thy course was done

Even as a shock of corn comes fully ripe

Into the garner should thy burial be

Beldv'd and wept of all."

Mournful arose

The sorrowful response.

"Oh that my grief

Were in the balance laid by faithful hands

And feeling hearts. To the afflicted soul

Friends should be comforters. But mine have dealt

Deceitfully, as fails the shallow brook

When summer's need is sorest.

Did I say

Bring me a gift? or from your flowing wealth

Give solace to my desolate penury?

Or with your pitying influence neutralize

My cup of scorn poured out by abject hands?

That thus ye mock me with contemptuous words

And futile arguments, and dig a pit

In which to whelm the man you call a friend?

Still darkly hinting at some heinous sin

Mysteriously concealed?

Writes conscious guilt

No transcript on the brow? Hangs it not out

Its signal there, altho' it seem to hide

'Neath an impervious shroud?

Look thro' the depths

Of my unshrinking eye, deep, deep within.

What see ye there? what gives suspicion birth?

As longs the laborer for the setting sun,

Watching the lengthening shadows that foretell

The time of rest, yet day by day returns

To the same task again, so I endure

Wearisome nights and months of burdening woe.

I would not alway live this loathed life

Whose days are vanity. Soon shall I sleep

Low in the dust, and when the morning comes

And thro' its curtaining mists ye seek my face

I shall not be."

Earnest the Shuhite spake,

"How long shall these thy words, like eddying winds

Fall empty on the ear?

Doth God pervert

Justice and judgment? If thy way was pure,

Thy supplication from an upright heart

He would awake and make thy latter end

More blest than thy beginning.

For inquire

Of ancient times, of History's honor'd scroll

And of the grey-hair'd fathers, if our words

Seem light, we who were born but yesterday.

Ask them and they shall teach thee, as the rush,

Or as the flag forsaken of the pod,

So shall the glory of the hypocrite

Fade in its greenness.

Tho' his house may seem

Awhile to flourish, it shall not endure.

Even tho' he grasp it with despairing strength

It shall deceive his trust and pass away,

As fleets the spider's filmy web. Behold

God will not cast away the perfect man

Nor help the evil doer."

In low tones,

Sepulchral, and with pain, the sufferer spake,

"I know that this is truth, but how can man

Be just with God? How shall he dare contend

With Him who stretches out the sky and treads

Upon the mountain billows of the sea,

And sealeth up the stars?

Array'd in strength,

He passeth by me, but I see Him not.

I hear His chariot-wheels, yet fear to ask

Where goest Thou?

If I, indeed, were pure,

And perfect, like the model ye see fit

To press upon me with your sharpest words,

I would not in mine arrogance arise

And reason with Him, but all humbly make

Petition to my Judge.

If there were one

To shield me from His terrors, and to stand

As mediator, I might dare to ask

Why didst Thou give this unrequested boon

Of life, to me, unhappy? My few days

Are swifter than a post. As the white sail

Fades in the mist, as the strong eagle's wing

Leaves no receding trace, they flee away,

They see no good.

Hath not Thy mighty hand

Fashion'd and made this curious form of clay,

Fenc'd round with bones and sinews, and inspired

By a mysterious soul? Oh be not stern

Against Thy creature, as the Lion marks

His destin'd prey.

Relent and let me take

Comfort a little, ere I go the way

Whence I return no more, to that far land

Of darkness and the dreary shades of death."

Scarce had he ceas'd ere Zophar's turbid thoughts

Made speed to answer.

"Shall a tide of talk

Wash out transgression? If thou choose to set

The truth at nought, must others hold their peace?

Hast thou not boasted that thy deeds and thoughts

Were perfect in the almighty Maker's sight?

Canst thou by searching find out God? Behold

Higher than heaven it is, what canst thou do?

Deeper than deepest hell, what canst thou know?

Why wilt thou ignorantly deem thyself

Unblamed before Him?

Oh that He would speak,

And put to shame thine arrogance.

His glance Discerns all wickedness, all vain pretence

To sanctity and wisdom. Were thine heart

Rightly prepared, and evil put away

From that and from thy house, then shouldst thou lift

Thy spotless face, clear as the noon-day sun

Stedfast and fearless. Yea, thou shouldst forget

Thy misery, as waters that have past

Away forever.

Thou shouldst be secure

And dig about thee and take root, and rest,

While those who scorn thee now, with soul abased,

Should make their suit unto thee.

But the eyes

Of wicked men shall fail, and as the groan

Of him who giveth up the ghost, shall be

Their frustrate hope."

Dejectedly, as one

Who wearied in a race, despairs to reach

The destined goal, nor yet consents to leave

His compeers masters of an unwon field.

Job said,—

"No doubt ye think to have attained

Monopoly of knowledge, and with you

Wisdom shall die. This modesty of creed

Befits ye well. Yet what have ye alledg'd

Unheard before? what great discoveries made?

Who knoweth not such things as ye have told?

Despised am I by those who call'd me friend

In prosperous days. Like a dim, waning lamp

About to be extinguished am I held

By the dull minds of those who dwell at ease.

Weak reasoners that ye are, ye have essay'd

To speak for God. Suppose ye He doth need

Such advocacy? whose creative hand

Holdeth the soul of every living thing,

And breath of all mankind?

He breaketh down,

And who can build again? Princes and kings

Are nothing in his sight. Disrobed of power

Ceaseless they wander and He heedeth not.

Those whom the world have worship'd seem as fools.

He lifteth up the nations at His will,

Or sweeps them with his lightest breath away

Like noteless atoms.

Silence is for you

The truest wisdom. Creatures that ye count

Inferior to yourselves, who in thin air

Spread the light wing, or thro' the waters glide,

Or roam the earth, might teach if ye would hear

And be instructed by them.

Hold your peace!

Even tho' He slay me I will trust in Him

For He is my salvation, He alone;

At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare

To stand, or answer.

Man, of woman born

Is of few days, and full of misery.

Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down,

He fleeth like a shadow. What is man

That God regardeth him? The forest tree

Fell'd by the woodman may have hope to live

And sprout again, and thro' the blessed touch

Of waters at the root put forth new buds

And tender branches like a plant. But man

Shorn of his strength, doth waste away and die,

He giveth up the ghost and where is he?

As slides the mountain from its heaving base

Hurling its masses o'er the startled vale,

As the rent rock resumes its place no more,

As the departed waters leave no trace

Save the groov'd channels where they held their course

Among the fissur'd stones, his form of dust

With its chang'd countenance, is sent away

And all the honors that he sought to leave

Behind him to his sons, avail him not."

He ceas'd and Eliphaz rejoin'd,

"A man

Of wisdom dealeth not in empty words

That like the east wind stirs the unsettled sands

To profitless revolt. Thou dost decry

Our speech and proudly justify thyself

Before thy God. He to whose searching eye

Heavens' pure immaculate ether seems unclean.

Ask of tradition, ask the white hair'd men

Much older than thy father, since to us

Thou deign'st no credence. Say they not to thee,

All, as with one consent, the wicked man

Travaileth with fruitless pain, a dreadful sound

Forever in his ears; the mustering tramp

Of hostile legions on the distant cloud,

A far-off echo from the woe to come?

Such is his lot who sinfully contends

Against the just will of the Judging One,

Lifting his puny arm in rebel pride

And rushing like a madman on his doom.

The wealth he may have gathered shall dissolve

And turn to ashes mid devouring flame.

His branch shall not be green, but as the vine

Casteth her unripe grapes, as thro' the leaves

Of rich and lustrous hue, the olive buds

Untimely strew the ground, shall be his trust

Who in the contumacy of his pride

Would fain deceive both others and himself."

To whom, the Man of Uz,—

"These occult truths

If such ye deem them, I have heard before;

Oh miserable comforters! I too

Stood but your soul in my soul's stead, could heap

Vain, bitter words, and shake my head in scorn.

But I would study to assuage your pain,

And solace shed upon your stricken hearts

With balm-drops of sweet speech.

Yet, as for me,

I speak and none regard, or drooping sit

In mournful silence, and none heed my woe.

They smite me on the cheek reproachfully,

And slander me in secret, though my cause

And witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven.

My record is on high.

Oh Thou, whose hand

Hath thus made desolate all my company,

And left me a poor, childless man—behold

They who once felt it pride to call me friend,

Make of my name a by-word, which was erst

Like harp or tabret to their venal lip.

Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow

Furrow'd with wrinkles.

Soon I go the way

Whence I shall not return. The grave, my house,

Is ready for me. In its mouldering clay

My bed I make, and say unto the worm

Thou art my sister."

With unpitying voice

Not comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake.

"How long ere thou shalt make an end of words

So profitless and vain? Thou dost account

Us vile as beasts. But shall the stable earth

With all its rocks and mountains be removed

For thy good pleasure?

See, the light forsake

The wicked man. Darkness and loneliness

Enshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall be

Mid snares and traps, and his own counsel fail

To guide him safely. By the heel, the gin

Shall seize him, and the robber's hand prevail

To rifle and destroy his treasure hoard.

Secret misgivings feed upon his strength,

And terrors waste his courage. He shall find

In his own tabernacle no repose,

Nor confidence. His withering root shall draw

No nutriment, and the unsparing ax

Cut off his branches. From a loathing world

He shall be chased away, and leave behind

No son or nephew to bear up his name

Among the people. No kind memories

Shall linger round his ashes, or refresh

The bearts of men. They who come after him

Shall be astonish'd at his doom, as they

Who went before him, view'd it with affright.

Such is the lot of those who know not God

Or wickedly renounce Him."

Earnestly

Replied the suffering man,

"Ye vex my soul

And break it into pieces. These ten times

Have ye reproach'd me, without sense of shame

Or touch of sympathy. If I have err'd

As without witness ye essay to prove

'Tis my concern, not yours.

But yet, how vain

To speak of wrong, or plead the cause of truth

Before the unjust.

Can ye not understand

God in his wisdom hath afflicted me?

Ilis hand hath reft away my crown and stripp'd

Me of my glory. Kindred blood vouchsafes

No aid or solace in my deep distress.

Estrang'd and far away, like statues cold

Brethren and kinsfolk stand. Familiar friends

Frown on me as a stranger. They who dwell

In my own house and eat my bread, despise me.

I call'd my own tried servant, but he gave

No answer or regard. My maidens train'd

For household service, to perform my will

Count me an alien;—even with my wife

My voice hath lost its power. Young children rise

And push away my feet and mock my words.

Yea, the best loved, most garner'd in my heart

Do turn against me as a thing abhorr'd.

Have pity, pity on me, oh my friends!

The hand of God hath smitten me.

I know

That my Redeemer liveth, and shall stand

At last upon the earth, and though in death

Worms shall destroy this body, in my flesh

Shall I see God."

This glorious burst of faith

Springing from depths of misery and pain

Awed them a moment, like the lightning's flash,

Cleaving the cloud. But gathering strength again,

They sought the conflict.

"Thou, who art so wise,

Hast thou not learn'd how baseless is the joy

And boasting of the hypocrite? His head

Up to the heavens in excellence and pride

May seem to mount, yet shall he swiftly fall

Leaving no trace. Though still he toils to keep

His sin a secret from his fellow-men,

Like a sweet, stolen morsel, hiding it

Under his tongue, yet shall the veil be rent.

God's fearful judgments shall make evident

What he hath done in darkness. Vipers' tongues

And the dire poison of the asp, shall be

His recompense. Terrors shall strike him through,

An inward fire of sharp remorse, unblown

By mortal hand, shall on his vitals feed,

And all his strength consume. His wealth shall fleet,

And they who trusted to become his heirs

Embrace a shadow, for his goods shall flow

Away, as the false brook forsakes its sands.

This is the portion of the hypocrite,

The heritage appointed him by God."

To Zophar answered Job,—

"Hear ye my speech,

And when 'tis done, mock on. Not unto man

Is my complaint. For were it so, my heart

Would sink in darker depths of hopeless woe.

Say ye that earth's 'prosperity' rewards

The righteous man? Why do the wicked live,

Grow old, and magnify themselves in power?

Their offspring flourish round them, their abodes

Are safe from fear. Their cattle multiply

And widely o'er the hills and pastures green

Wander their healthful herds. Forth like a flock

They send their little ones, with dance and song,

Tabret and harp. They spend their days in wealth

And sink to slumber in the quiet grave.

Yet unto God they said, Depart from us,

For we desire no knowledge of thy ways.

Why should we serve the Almighty? Who is he?

And what our profit if we pray to Him?

Close by these impious ones lies down to sleep,

One in the strength and glory of his prime,

Whom sorrow never touch'd, nor age impair'd;

And still another, wan misfortune's child,

Nurtur'd in bitterness, who never took

His meat with pleasure. Side by side they rest

On Death's oblivious pillow. Do ye say

Their varied lot below, mark'd their deserts?

In retribution just?

But as for you

With eyes so sharp for your own selfish ends,

Who by the wayside ask where'er ye go,

"Where is the dwelling of the prince? and seek

Gain more than godliness, I know full well

Your deep contempt for one too poor to bribe

Your false allegiance, and the unkind device

Ye wrongfully imagine.

Will ye teach

Knowledge to God? Doth He not wisely judge

The highest? and reserve the sons of guilt

For the destruction that awaiteth them?"

In quick rejoinder, Eliphaz replied,

"What is thy fancied goodness in the sight

Of the Almighty? Is it gain to Him

If thou art righteous? Would it add to Him

Gladness or glory, that thy ways should be

What thou call'st perfect?

Rather turn thine eyes

Upon the record of thy sins, and see

Their countless number.

Hast thou taken a pledge

From thy poor brother's hand? or reft away

The garment from the shivering? or withheld

Bread from the hungry? or the widow sent

Empty away? not given the weary soul

What it implored? nor bound the broken arm

Of the forsaken fatherless?

For this

Have snares beset thee? and a secret fear

Dismay'd thy spirit? and a rayless night

Shut over thee?

Look to the height of heaven,

Above the utmost star. Is not God there?

Think'st thou that aught can intercept His sight

Or bar His righteous judgment? He who makes

The thickest clouds His footstool, when He walks

Upon the circuit of the highest heavens?

Acquaint thyself with Him and be at peace,

Return to Him, and He shall build thee up.

Take thou His precepts to thine inmost heart

That thy lost blessings may revisit thee.

Put far away thy foster'd sins, and share

The swelling flood-tide of prosperity.

Thou shalt have silver at thy will, and gold,

The gold of Ophir in thy path shall lie

As stones that pave the brooks.

Make thou thy prayer,

And pay thy vows, and He will hear thy voice

And give thee light, and thy desires confirm:

For He will save the humble and protect

The innocent and still deliver those

Whose hands are pure."

To whom, the Man of Uz,

"Oh that I knew where I might find my Judge,

That I might press even to His seat, and plead

My cause before Him. Would He strike me dumb

With His great power? Nay,—rather would he give

Strength to the weakness that would answer Him.

Lo! I go forward,—but He is not there,—

And backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not.

On the left hand, His works surround me still,

But He is absent,—on the right, I gaze,

Yet doth He hide Himself.

But well He knows

My way, and when the time of trial's o'er,

And the refining fire hath purg'd the dross,

I shall come forth as gold. My feet have kept

The path appointed, nor from His commands

Unduly swerved, for I have prized His word

More than my needful food.

Yet He performs

What His wise counsel hath decreed for me,

Though sometimes sinks my soften'd heart beneath

The terror of His stroke.

There are, who seize

With violence whate'er their eyes desire;

Gorging themselves upon the stolen flock

And leaving desolate the rifled hut

Of the defenceless. Solitary ones

Hide from their robberies, for forth they go

Into the wilderness, their prey to hunt

Like ravening beasts.

There are, who watch to slay,

Rising before the dawn, or wrapp'd in night

Roaming with stealthy footstep, as a thief,

To smite their victims, while the wounded groan

Struck by their fatal shaft.

There are, who do

Such deeds of utter darkness as detest

The gaze of day. Muffling their face, they dig

Their way to habitations where they leave

Shame and dishonor.

Though He seem to sleep,

God's eye is on their ways. A little while

They wrap themselves in secret infamy,

Or proudly flourish,—but as the tall tree

Yields in a moment to the wrecking blast,

As 'neath the sickle falls the crisping corn,

Shall they be swept away, and leave no trace."

Bildad, the Shuhite, rose in act to speak.

"Dominion is with God, and fear. He makes

Peace in his own high places. Dost thou know

The number of His armies? Or on whom

His light ariseth not?

How then can man

Be justified with God? or he be pure

Born of a woman. Lo! the cloudless Moon,

And yon unsullied stars, are in His sight

Dim and impure. Can man who is a worm

Be spotless with his Maker?"

Hark, the voice

Of the afflicted man:

"How dost thou help

Him that is powerless? how sustain the arm

That fails in strength? how counsel him who needs

Wisdom? and how declare the righteous truth

Just as it is?

To Him who reads the soul,

Hades is naked, and the realms of Death

Have naught to cover them. This pendent Earth

Hangs on his word,—in gathering clouds he binds

The ponderous waters, till at his command

They rend their filmy prison. Day and night

Await his nod to run their measured course.

Heaven's pillars and its everlasting gates

Tremble at his reproof. The cleaving sea

And man's defeated pride confess his power.

Yet the same Hand that garnisheth the skies

Disdaineth not to fashion and sustain

The crooked serpent. But how small a part

Of all its works are understood by us

Dim dwellers in this lowly vestibule,

And by the thunders of mysterious power

Still held in awe.

As the Eternal lives

Who hath bow'd down my soul, as long as breath

Inspires this mortal frame, these lips shall ne'er

Utter deceit, nor cast away the wealth

Of a good conscience. While I live I'll hold

Fast mine integrity,—nor justify

The slanderous charges of a secret guilt

Ye bring against me.

For what is the gain

Of the base hypocrite when God shall take

Away his perjured soul? Yourselves have seen

How often in this life the wicked taste

Of retribution. The oppressor bears

Sway for a while,—but look!—the downfall comes.

His offspring shall not flourish, nor his grave

Be wet with widow's tears.

The unjust rich man

Heapeth up silver for a stranger's hand,

He hoardeth raiment with a miser's greed

To robe he knows not who, though he himself

Had grudg'd to wear it. Boastfully he builds

A costly mansion to preserve his name

Among the people. But like the slight booth,

Brief lodge of summer, shall it pass away.

Terrors without a cause, disable him

And drown his courage. Like a driven leaf

Before the whirlwind, shall he hasten down

To a dishonor'd tomb. Men shall rejoice,

And clap their hands, and hiss him from his place

When he departs.

Surely, there is a vein

For silver, and a secret bed for gold

Which man discovers. Where the iron sleeps

In darkest chambers of the mine he knows,

And how the brass is molten. But a Mind

Deeper than his, close-hidden things explores,

Searching out all perfection.

Earth unveils

The mystic treasures of her matron breast,

Bread for her children, gems like living flame,

Sapphires, whose azure emulates the skies,

And dust of gold. Yet there's a curtain'd path

Which the unfettered denizens of air

Have not descried, nor even the piercing eye

Of the black vulture seen. The lion's whelps

In their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sire

Have never trod it.

There's a Hand that bares

The roots of mountains at its will, and cuts

Through rifted rocks a channel, where the streams

And rivers freely flow—an Eye that scans

Each precious thing.

But where doth Wisdom dwell?

And in what curtain'd chamber was the birth

Of Understanding?

The great Sea uplifts

Its hand in adjuration, and declares

"'Tis not with me," and its unfathom'd deep

In subterranean thunders, echoing cry

"No, not with me."

Offer ye not for them

Silver, or Ophir's gold, nor think to exchange

Onyx, or sapphire, or the coral branch

Or crystal gem where hides imprison'd light,

Nor make ye mention of the precious pearl

Or Ethiopian topaz, for their price

Transcendeth rubies, or the dazzling ray

Of concentrated jewels.

In what place

Are found these wondrous treasures? Who will show

Their habitation? which alike defies

The ken of those who soar, or those who delve

In cells profound.

Death and destruction say,

From their hoarse caverns, "We have heard their fame

But know them not."

Lo! He who weighs the winds

Measures the floods, controls the surging sea

And points the forked lightnings where to play,

He, unto whom all mysteries are plain

All secrets open, all disguises clear,

Saith unto man the questioner,—

"Behold

The fear of God is wisdom, and to break

The sway of evil and depart from sin

Is understanding."

Anguish wrings my soul

As in my hours of musing I restore

The picture of my lost prosperity,

When round my side my loving children drew

And from my happy home my steps were hail'd

Where'er I went. The fatherless and poor,

And he who had no helper, welcomed me

As one to right their wrongs, and pluck the spoil

From the oppressor's teeth. Pale widows raised

The glistening eye of gratitude, and they

Whose sight was quench'd, at my remembered tones

Pour'd blessings on me. Overflowing wealth

Brought me no titles that I held so dear

As father of the poor, and comforter

Of all who mourn.

When in the gate I sate

The nobles did me honor, and the wise

Sought counsel of me. To my words the young

Gave earnest heed, the white-hair'd men stood up,

And princes waited for my speech, as wait

The fields in summer for the latter rain.

But now, the children of base men spring up

And push away my feet, and make my name

A bye-word and a mockery, which was erst

Set to the harp in song.

Because my wealth

God hath resumed, they who ne'er dared to claim

Equality with even the lowest ones

Who watch'd my flock, they whom my menials scorned,

Dwellers in hovels, feeding like the brutes

On roots and bushes of the wilderness,

Despise me, and in mean derision cast

Marks of abhorrence at the fallen chief

Whom erst they fear'd.

Unpitied I endure

Sickness and pain that ope the narrow house

Where all the living go. My soul dissolves

And flows away as water—like the owl

In lone, forgotten cavern I complain,

For all my instruments of music yield

But mournful sounds, and from my organ comes

A sob of weeping.

I appeal to Him

Who sees my ways, and all my steps doth count,

If I have walk'd with vanity or worn

The veil of falsehood, or despised to obey

The law of duty; if I basely prowl'd

With evil purpose round my neighbor's door,

Or scorn'd my humblest menial's cause to right

When he contended with me, and complain'd,

Framed as he was of the same clay with me

By the same Hand Divine; or shunn'd to share

Even my last morsel with the hungry poor,

Or shield the uncovered suppliant with the fleece

Of my own cherish'd flock.

If ere I made

Fine gold my confidence, or lifted up

My heart in pride, because my wealth was great,

Or when I saw the glorious King of Day

Gladdening all nations, and the queenly Moon

Walking in brightness, was enticed to pay

A secret homage,—'twere idolatry

Unpardonably great.

If I rejoiced

In the affliction of mine enemy

Or for his hatred breathed a vengeful vow

When trouble came upon him,—if I closed

The inhospitable door against the foot

Of stranger, or of traveller,—or withheld

Full nutriment from any who abode

Within my tabernacle,—or refused

Due justice even to my own furrow'd field,

Then let my harvest unto thistles turn,

And rootless weeds o'ertop the beardless grain."

Then ceased the Man of Uz, like one o'erspent,

Feeling the fallacy of argument

With auditors like these, his thoughts withdrew

Into the shroud of silence, and he spake

No more unto them, standing fix'd and mute,

Like statued marble.

Then, as none replied,

A youthful stranger rose, and while he stretch'd

His hand in act to speak, and heavenward raised

His clear, unshrinking brow, he worthy seem'd

To hold the balance of that high debate.

Still, an indignant warmth, with energy

Of fervid eloquence his lips inspired.

—"I said that multitude of days should bring

Wisdom to man, and so gave earnest heed

To every argument. And lo! not one

Of all your speeches have convicted Job,

Or proved your theory that woes like his

Denote a secret guilt.

I listened still

With that respect which youth doth owe to age,

And till ye ceased to speak, refrain'd to show

Mine own opinion. But there is a breath

From the Almighty, that gives life to thought,

And in my soul imprison'd utterance burns

Like torturing flame. So, will I give it vent

Though I am young in years, and ye are old,

And should be wise. I will not shun to uphold

The righteous cause, nor will I gloze the wrong

With flattering titles, lest the kindling wrath

Of an offended Maker, sweep me hence.

Hearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my words

For they are words of truth.

Thou hast assumed

More perfect innocence than appertains

To erring man, and eager to refute

False accusation hast contemn'd the course

Of the All-Merciful.

Why shouldst thou strive

With Him whose might of wisdom ne'er unveils

Its mysteries to man? Yet doth He deign

Such hints and precepts as the docile heart

May comprehend. Sometimes in vision'd sleep,

His Spirit hovereth o'er the plastic mind

Sealing instruction. Or a different voice

Its sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops,

Strong pain amid the multitude of bones

Doth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat.

His fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pit

He hourly hastens. Holy Sympathy

May aid to uphold him in its blessed arms

Kindly interpreting the Will Divine,

With angel tenderness.

But if the God

Whose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayer

Baptized with dropping tears—perceives the cry

Of humbled self-abasing penitence,

He casts away the scourge—the end is gained.

Fresh as a child's, the wither'd flesh returns,

And life, and health, and joy, are his once more.

With discipline like this, He often tries

The creatures He hath made, to crush the seeds

Of pride, and teach that lowliness of soul

Befitting them, and pleasing in His sight.

Oh Man of Uz—if thou hast aught to add

Unto thy argument—I pray thee, speak!

Fain would I justify thee.

Is it well

To combat Him who hath the right to reign?

Or even to those who fill an earthly throne

And wear a princely diadem, to say,

Ye are unjust?

But how much less to Him

The fountain of all power, who heedeth not

Earth's vain distinctions, nor regards the rich

More than the poor, for all alike are dust

And ashes in His sight.

Is it not meet

For those who bear His discipline, to say

I bow submissive to the chastening Hand

That smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me that

Which through my blindness I have failed to see,

For I have sinn'd, but will offend no more.

Say, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to hold

Thyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind?

If thou art righteous what giv'st thou to Him

Who sits above the heavens? Can He receive

Favor from mortals?

Open not thy mouth

To multiply vain words, but rather bow

Unto the teaching of His works that spread

So silently around. His snows descend

And make the green Earth hoary. Chains of frost

Straighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rains

Refresh her summer thirst, or rending clouds

Roll in wild deluge o'er her. Roaming beasts

Cower in their dens affrighted, while she quakes

Convuls'd with inward agony, or reels

Dizzied with flashing fires.

Again she smiles

In her recovered beauty, at His will,

Maker of all things. So, He rules the world,

With wrath commingling mercy. Who may hope

With finite mind to understand His ways,

So excellent in power, in wisdom deep,

In justice terrible, respecting none

Who pride themselves in fancied wisdom."

Hark!

On the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks,

Tornadoes shake the desert, thunders roll

And from the lightning's startled shrine, a voice!

The voice of the Eternal.

"Who is this

That darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words?

Gird up thy loins and answer.

Where wert thou

When the foundations of the earth were laid?

Who stretch'd the line, and fix'd the corner-stone,

When the bright morning-stars together sang

And all the hosts that circle round the Throne

Shouted for joy?

Whose hand controll'd the sea

When it brake forth to whelm the new-fram'd world?

Who made dark night its cradle and the cloud

Its swaddling-band? commanding

"Hitherto

Come, but no further. At this line of sand

Stay thy proud waves."

Hast thou call'd forth the morn

From the empurpled chambers of the east,

Or bade the trembling day-spring know its place?

Have Orion's depths been open'd to thy view?

And hast thou trod his secret floor? or seen

The gates of Death's dark shade?

Where doth light dwell?

And ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign'd

Before Creation? Dost thou know the path

Unto their house, because thou then wert born?

And is the number of thy days so great?

Show me the treasure-house of snows. Unlock

The mighty magazines of hail, that wait

The war of elements.

Who hath decreed

A water-course for embryo fountain springs?

Mark'd out the lightning's path and bade the rain

O'erlook not in its ministries the waste

And desolate plain, but wake the tender herb

To cheer the bosom of the wilderness.

Tell me the father of the drops of dew,

The curdling ice, and hoary frost that seal

The waters like a stone, and change the deep

To adamant.

Bind if thou canst, the breath

And balmy influence of the Pleiades.

Bring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guide

Arcturus, with his sons.

Canst thou annul

The fix'd decree that in their spheres detain

The constellations? Will the lightnings go

Forth on thine errands, and report to thee

As loyal vassals?

Who in dying clay

Infused the immortal principle of mind,

And made them fellow-workers?

If thou canst

Number the flying clouds, and gather back

Their falling showers, when parch'd and cleaving earth

Implores their charity. Wilt hunt the prey

With the stern forest-king? or dare invade

The darkened lair where his young lions couch

Ravenous with hunger?

Who the ravens feeds

When from the parent's nest hurl'd out, they cry

And all forsaken, ask their meat from God?

Know'st thou the time when the wild goats endure

The mother-sorrow? how their offspring grow

Healthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall'd?

Who made the wild ass like the desert free,

Scorning the rein, and from the city's bound

Turning triumphant to the wilderness?

Lead to thy crib the unicorn, and bind

His unbow'd sinews to the furrowing plough,

And trust him if thou canst to bring thy seed

Home to the garner.

Who the radiant plumes

Gave to the peacock? or the winged speed

That bears the headlong ostrich far beyond

The baffled steed and rider? not withheld

By the instinctive tenderness that chains

The brooding bird, she scatters on the sands

Her unborn hopes, regardless though the foot

May trampling crush them.

Hast thou given the Horse

His glorious strength, and clothed his arching neck

With thunder? At the armed host he mocks,—

The rattling quiver, and the glittering spear.

Prancing and proud, he swalloweth the ground

With rage, and passionate desire to rush

Into the battle. At the trumpet's sound,

And shouting of the captains, he exults,

Drawing the stormy terror with delight

Into his fearless spirit.

Doth the Hawk

In her migrations counsel ask of Thee?

Mounts the swift Eagle up at thy command?

Making her nest among the star-girt cliffs,

And thence undazzled by the vertic sun

Scanning the molehills of the earth, or motes

That o'er her bosom move.

Say,—wilt thou teach

Creative Wisdom? or contend with Him

The Almighty,—ordering all things at His will?"

Then there was silence, till the chastened One

Murmured as from the dust,

"Lo, I am vile!

What shall I answer thee?—I lay my hand

Upon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak,

But would be silent now, forevermore."

—Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind's wing,

Jehovah's voice demanded,—

"Wilt thou dare

To disannul my judgments? and above

Unerring wisdom, and unbounded power

Exalt thine own?

Hast thou an arm like mine?

Array thyself in majesty, and look

On all the proud in heart, and bring them low,—

Yea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroad

The arrows of thine anger, and abase

The arrogant, and send the wicked down

To his own place, sealing his face like stone

Deep in the dust; for then will I confess

Thy might, and that thine own right hand hath power

To save thyself.

Hast seen my Behemoth,

Who on the grassy mountains finds his food?

And 'neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disports

His monstrous bulk?

His bones like brazen bars,

His iron sinews cased in fearful strength

Resist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirst

The rivers dwindle, and he thinks to draw

The depths of Jordan dry.

Wilt cast thy hook

And take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yoke

Upon him, as a vassal? Will he cringe

Unto thy maidens?

See the barbed spear

The dart and the habergeon, are his scorn.

Sling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil'd,

And from the plaited armor of his scales

The glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines,

Who is so daring as to rouse him up,

With his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame?

Or to the cavern of his gaping jaws

Thick set with teeth, draw near?

The Hand alone

That made him can subdue his baleful might."

Jehovah ceas'd,—for the Omniscient Eye

That scans the inmost thought of man, discern'd

Its work completed in that lowliness

Of deep humility which fits the soul

For heavenly intercourse, and renovates

The blessed image of obedient love

That Eden forfeited.

Out of the depths

Of true contrition sigh'd a trembling tone

In utter abnegation,

"I repent!

In dust and ashes. I abhor myself."

—Thus the returning prodigal who cries

Unclothed and empty, "Father! I have sinn'd,

And am not worthy to be called thy son,"

Finds full forgiveness, and a free embrace,

While the best robe his shrinking form enfolds.

But with this self-abasement toward his God

Job mingled tenderest regard for man.

No longer with indignant warmth he strove

Against his false accusers, or retained

Rankling remembrance of the enmity

That vexed his wounded soul

With earnest prayers

And offerings, he implored offended Heaven

To grant forgiveness to those erring friends,

Paying with love the alienated course

Of their misguided minds.

Heaven heard his voice,

And with that intercession sweet, return'd

The sunbeams of his lost prosperity.

Back came his buried joys. They had no power

To harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide

Of wealth swept o'er him. On his many hills

Gathered the herds, and o'er his pastures green

Sported the playful lambs. The tuneful voice

Of children fill'd his desolate home with joy,

And round his household board their beauty gleam'd,

Making his spirit glad.

So full of days,

While twice our span of threescore years and ten,

Mark'd out its silvery chronicle of moons

Still to his knee his children's children climb'd

To hear the wisdom he had learned of God

Through the strong teaching both of joy and woe.

Nor had this sublunary scene alone,

Witness'd his trial. Doubt ye not that forms

To earth invisible were hovering near

With the sublime solicitude of Heaven.

For he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting pride

Of impious revolt, had dared to say

Unto the King of Kings,

"Stretch forth thy hand

And take away all that he hath, and Job

Will curse Thee to Thy face."

Methinks we hear

An echo of angelic harmony

From that blest choir who struck their harps with joy

That from the Tempter's ordeal he had risen

An unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour'd

Their gratulations that the born of clay

Tho' by that mystery bow'd which ever veils

The inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One,

Might with the chieftain of the Rebel Host

Cope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way.