VIII.
These, by Fancy, great enchanter, called, into my presence enter,
When the Sun and Earth are sleeping and the Moon and Stars are bright,
And whatever past seemed pleasant I live over in the present,
And the cares of day are lessened by the magic of the night.
BALAAM.
While sleep had set its seal on many eyes,
Balaam, the Seer, was forth beneath the stars,
Whose beauty glimmered in Euphrates’ stream,
Gemming the mournful willows’ floating hair.
Behind him were the mountains of the east,
The dark-browed nurses of the blue-eyed founts,
Whose lone hearts were the life of Pethor-land.
Westward, beyond the river, was the waste,
O’er which, this second time, with priceless gifts,
Had come from Balak noble messengers;
And westward were the eyes of Balaam turned,
As one who waits for one who does not come,
While wild things came and passed unheeded by,
And the night wind, as with an angel’s harp,
Played lullaby to all the dreaming flowers.
And, gazing on the western sky, he saw
A picture, all whose forms were quick with life,
Where all was discord, hurrying to and fro,
As when two armies strive to gain the field;
For, from the outer realms of space, there came
Gigantic spearsmen, over whom there waved
Gay, many-coloured banners, and these flew,
Hither and thither, o’er the starry plain,
Pursuing and retreating; others came,
And others, till it seemed all Sabaoth
Had joined in conflict with the wicked one.
And then there was a change; banners and spears
Faded away, as fades away the reek
Above a hamlet on a frosty morn;
And none can tell when he sees last of it.
And, in a little while, there grew an arch,
Whose keystone was the zenith of the sky,
Like to a rainbow, joining east and west,
Beautiful, quivering, fearful, ominous,
Drawing the heart of Balaam after it.
And this, too, vanished, vapor-like, away;
And Balaam, though he waited its return,
Waited in vain; for warriors, and spears,
And banners, and the fiery flash of hosts
Embattled, and the mystic arch, were gone,
And came no more.
And Balaam stood amazed
Long time, while thoughts, conflicting, tore his breast,
And barred all passage for his voice.
At length,
“Hath not the Highest, by this sign, declared
His purpose? I must go!” he said, and then
Dark-boding terrors shook him and the strain
That held his face rapt westward, all relaxed
By speech, he felt as one, who, in a dream,
Stands on a steep cliff, by the greedy sea,
While ruthless foes pursue him.
“I must go!”
He said, and from ten thousand horrid throats
There seemed to come a mocking answer, “Go!”
And o’er him came a shiver, as a lake
Shivers beneath the burden of a breeze.
And then there came a whisper to his ear,
“Balaam, God’s prophet! go not with these men!
Puttest thou Balak’s honour above His
Who chose thee to declare His will to men?
Go, and thou art undone! God doth not lie!”
Then Balaam, as in answer to a friend:
“There came across the desert lordly men
From Moab and from Midian, who besought,
With many prayers and noble gifts, that I,
Balaam, the Seer, would go with them and curse
A people who were terrible in war—
To whom the strength of Moab was as grass
Before the oxen, feeding on the plains—
If, haply, I might crush them with a curse!
These prayed I to abide with me all night,
Till I should learn the purpose of the Lord—
And, in a dream, God warned me not to go;
And so they went away ungratified.
Then came these princes with more precious gifts,
And still more precious promises, who said,
‘Balak, our lord, hath sent us unto thee,
And prayeth thee to come. He will promote
Thee and thy house to honour; and all boons,
Whate’er thou askest, he will freely give.’
And I replied, ‘If Balak’s house were full
Of gold and silver, and he made it mine,
Or more or less than God commandeth me,
I could not do. But tarry here to-night,
And I will hear the answer of the Lord.’
And then God sent a sign, the like of which
I, who know all the faces of the night,
And am familiar with all stars that shine
Over the hills and plains of Pethor-land,
Have never seen before, a sign which said:
‘Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.’
Or more or less than God commandeth me
I cannot do. Am I in this to blame?”
And then the wind came sweeping down the hills,
And Balaam heard again the mocking cry,
“If these man call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”
And though he shuddered, all his face grew dark
And knotted, as he said, “God doth not lie,
But—doth God mock? Hath he not sent a sign
To me, who have the power of reading signs,
His own high gift? And now—and now, O God!
If thou wouldst send me yet another sign—!”
And here the whisper of the still, small voice
Came back, “O, Balaam! wretched is their fate,
Who, knowing good from evil, choose not good,
Or suffer evil, howsoever fair,
To make the good less lovely in their eyes!
Full well thou knowest that thy heart is set
More on the gold of Balak than God’s will.
God doth not mock. ’Tis thou that mockest Him,
Coming into His presence, full of lust,
And seeking for a sign. If thou wert pure
No sign were needed. Being as thou art,
Wert thou to offer up the land’s whole wealth,
Oxen and rams, and corn, and wine, and oil,
And all the first-born of thy kings, no sign
Would purge thee of those sordid dreams that drag
Thy soul from God to hell!
It is not yet too late,
Perhaps, and but perhaps!
O, Balaam, rouse thee!
Thou art, e’en yet, God’s prophet! He has shewn
His will to none more clearly than to thee.
What is it He requireth at thy hands?
Be true and honest, pure and merciful,
Having thy heart aflame with faith and love,
Still walking humbly, as though prone to fall—
Guarding thine eyes from covetous wanderings,
Deeming God’s gifts more beautiful than man’s—
And he will keep thee right in all thy ways.
Oh! what is Balak’s honour, Balak’s gold,
To Balaam, if the Highest be his friend,
Who owns the wealth and beauty of the world?
Balaam, if these men call thee, do not go.”
And Balaam bowed himself unto the ground,
And lay upon his face in misery;
And in his heart an awful battle raged,
Where evil fought with good. Longtime he lay,
As one entranced, all motionless, but full,
Through every nerve, of wakeful, painful life.
And then he rose, as from his grave, so pale
And wild his visage; and he looked again,
Along the waste, towards the western sky,
But saw no sign, save that the stars grew dim,
And some were gone; and, even as he looked,
He seemed to hear from all the waking earth,
Borne through the gloaming on the mountain wind,
The words he loved and longed for and yet loathed,
“Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.”
And once again a shudder shook his frame;
And once again he bowed him to the earth,
And lay upon his face in misery,
Until, from weariness, he fell asleep.
And as he slept, he dreamed he was a child
And heard sweet music, soft as is the breeze
That steals through corn-fields on a summer’s day,
And makes the flowers kiss sweetly, and the leaves
On every tree grow tremulous for joy.
And then there came a noble, swelling strain,
Like the grand chorus of victorious hosts
That still march on to victory; and he heard,
And was a man, with men—a king of men,
With crown of inspiration on his brow.
Around him thronged the chiefs of Pethor-land
And others, from afar, who came to hear
The wisdom God had given to his lips.
But he was still as humble as the child
That played of yore amid the flowers, and drew
From their sweet breath the beauty of the good.
And as he spoke, they listened to his words
As to an angel’s: for his words were wise,
Wiser than all the wisdom of the East.