| |
| O FOR a sculptor’s hand, | |
| That thou might’st take thy stand, | |
| Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, | |
| Thy tranc’d yet open gaze | |
| Fix’d on the desert haze, | 5 |
| As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees! | |
| |
| In outline dim and vast | |
| Their fearful shadows cast | |
| The giant forms of empires on their way | |
| To ruin: one by one | 10 |
| They tower and they are gone, | |
| Yet in the Prophet’s soul the dreams of avarice stay. | |
| |
| No sun or star so bright | |
| In all the world of light | |
| That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye! | 15 |
| He hears th’ Almighty’s word, | |
| He sees the angel’s sword, | |
| Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie. | |
| |
| Lo! from yon argent field, | |
| To him and us reveal’d, | 20 |
| One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell. | |
| Chain’d as they are below | |
| Our eyes may see it glow, | |
| And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well. | |
| |
| To him it glared afar, | 25 |
| A token of wild war, | |
| The banner of his Lord’s victorious wrath: | |
| But close to us it gleams, | |
| Its soothing lustre streams | |
| Around our home’s green walls, and on our church-way path. | 30 |
| |
| We in the tents abide | |
| Which he at distance eyed, | |
| Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, | |
| While seven red altar-fires | |
| Rose up in wavy spires, | 35 |
| Where on the mount he watch’d his sorceries dark and dread. | |
| |
| He watch’d till morning’s ray | |
| On lake and meadow lay, | |
| And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep | |
| Around the banner’d lines, | 40 |
| Where by their several signs | |
| The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep. | |
| |
| He watch’d till knowledge came | |
| Upon his soul like flame, | |
| Not of those magic fires at random caught: | 45 |
| But true prophetic light | |
| Flash’d o’er him, high and bright, | |
| Flash’d once, and died away, and left his darken’d thought. | |
| |
| And can he choose but fear, | |
| Who feels his God so near, | 50 |
| That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue | |
| In blessing only moves?— | |
| Alas! the world he loves | |
| Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung. | |
| |
| Sceptre and Star divine, | 55 |
| Who in Thine inmost shrine | |
| Hast made us worshippers, O claim Thine own! | |
| More than Thy seers we know— | |
| O teach our love to grow | |
| Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown. | 60 |
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