priests.
The days were drawn towards the sun,
Kissed every one,
By lips red-ripe with summer sweet,
From brow to feet.
Dawn’s cold pale forehead with the black
Night-hair pushed back,
Flushed feet of eve, that walk the west,
Were caught and pressed.
people.
Yet ere the months had failed of flower,
Their branch of time
Grew heavy with a ripening hour,
God’s plant of prime.
More precious than the whitening wheat.
Or swollen fig;
Sweeter than palm fruit peeled to eat,
Or grapes grown big.
priests.
Made-music for the harps we string,
The silver ring
Of beaten cymbals which we raise
On feasting days,
And on the lips of sweetest singers,
Between the fingers
Of those that pluck at silver wires
Of writhen lyres.
people.
A psalm upon the psalteries,
On shawms a song,
Upon the horns great harmonies,
Blown loud and long;
A writing for the scrolls of scribes,
The graven gates
That tell the triumphs of the tribes
On brazen plates.
priests.
Wherefore the heavy hearts and sad
Be grown all glad,
And rainbow light in eyes yet rimmed
By grief that dimmed.
Wherefore the mouth by mourning mute,
The feeble foot,
Hath joy in it as meat and bread,
Is strong of tread.
people.
In garden ground the summer burns,
Not yet grown old,
And on the corn whose colour turns
From green to gold ;
But harvest men, before they make
The sickle sharp,
Go up to keep the days sweet sake
With heart and harp.
priests.
It falls within the twofold time:
The youngest prime
Of fruit, the latest looks of flowers,
Are on its hours.
And blossoms sweet through loosening leaves,
And early sheaves,
Green gathered from the growing wheat,
Are offerings meet.
people.
To lift tip the slant scale of sin,
And weigh at last
With righteous recompense cast in,
Present with past,
The pleasant paths beneath our feet
Were broken up;
We tasted through the foam of sweet,
A bitter cup.
priests.
“Because your hearts are waxen dead,”
The Lord God said,
“And in your ears my name sounds cold,
My name of old,
“I lift a sword upon the land;
A heavy hand
Between you and your sins falls keen
To scourge you clean.”
people.
Was it so sweet from God to hide
In garden ways,
The women large-lipped and long-eyed,
What was their face?
Were they so gracious in their groves;
The lords of stone,
Or were their damsels dear with loves
Beyond our own ?
priests.
The well-graved images which ye
Were pleased to see,
Deeming gods, clear of face and fair
Of form, were there;
Gods gazed upon and drawn so near,
Who could not hear,
Were they as He unseen and far
In whom we are?
people.
The wanton women scorning stealth.
Their lust confessed,
Spendthrift of red coin and white wealth,
Of mouth and breast;
Soft sin-flowers leaving poison pods
For bitter birth,
Ungirdled girls and garden-gods,
Were they well worth?
priests.
Yea, what were all light-clothen charms,
And stretched-out arms,
By the pure hearts from out you failed,
Your virgins veiled?
The flowery rods at first that beat
So light and sweet,
Their flowers fell off from them yet fresh,
Thorns tore the flesh.
people.
“Our gods are great,” the false priests said,
“For their fierce joys
The fire must flow about the head
Of girls and boys.”
Prone ’neath their women’s soft queen-hood,
Their lord’s kingship
Smote off the silken servitude
With bloody whip.
priests.
“Have ye a garland for your head?”
The wise God said.
“Lo! here a fetter for your feet,
It is but meet.
“For strangers ye My laws forsake,
Their yokes to take;
Think ye to choose the light and small
Nor wear them all?”
people.
Our hosts were broken in the wars,
And faint of heart
Fled home, and from his shut house-doors
None durst depart.
Then were we aliens in our streets
And father’s fields.
Dogs to be glad of morsel meats
A master yields.
priests.
Their captains chose them slaves at will
To toil and till,
And princes for their serving-men,
By five and ten.
And spoused maidens for their bed,
Cast out unwed
To be the sport of lewd women,
And mock of men.
people.
And so the time went heavily
For years eighteen.
And God’s face, which we sought to see,
It was not seen.
The seasons moved from frost to flower,
From flower to fruit,
But all the echoes of their power
Were lost and mute.
priests.
But He who sits above the years
He told our tears;
He who before did count our crime
In His good time,
From where He ruled, ordained a deed,
To help our need,
And show the heathen, Israel
Was yet loved well.
people.
Under their king, even where he sat,
Girt round with sin,
As with a garment, foul and fat,
Without, within.
There, in his builded pleasant place,
His windowed room,
That curtained out the summer days,
Was sent a doom.
priests.
A secret message from the Lord,—
Was not the sword
Of swift Ehud the pen of it?
The scribe was fit.
He wrote it where it might be read,
Wrote it and fled;
We kept the fords and slew them, till
None were to kill.
people.
A day among the days is thus
A feast; there is
A man of all the tribes o’er us
A judge for this.
The day with service comes and parts,
And sacrifice;
And in his hand are all our hearts
Held sceptre-wise.