O! leave me, Priest; my soul would be Far sadder eyes than thine will see Hands that have plucked the world's coarse gains, As erst they plucked the flowers of May. Call, if thou canst, to these gray eyes Some faith from youth's traditions wrung; Once laid its consecrating hands: Paused, waiting my supreme commands. But look! whose shadows block the door? See! on my hands this freshening gore God bends from out the deep and says, I Bringest thou me my hundred-fold ?” Can I look up with face aglow, And answer, "Father, here is gold "? I have been innocent; God knows, Christ still was wandering o'er the earth He shared my cup and broke my bread; My snake-turned nature, sunk in slime, Upon the hour when I was born, God said, "Another man shall be," And the great Maker did not scorn Out of himself to fashion me; He sunned me with his ripening looks, And Heaven's rich instincts in me grew, As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue. Yes, I who now, with angry tears, And to what end? How yield I back Men think it is an awful sight On that drear voyage from whose night Mine held them once; I flung away Those keys that might have open set The golden sluices of the day, But clutch the keys of darkness yet; I hear the reapers singing go Into God's harvest; I, that might With them have chosen, here below Grope shuddering at the gates of night. O glorious Youth, that once was mine! Ye enter at this ruined shrine Whence worship ne'er shall rise again; The bat and owl inhabit here, The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near, The image of the God is gone. RABBI BEN EZRA. BY ROBERT BROWNING. ROW old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall ?" It yearned, Nor Jove, nor Mars: Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" Not for such hopes and fears, Do I remonstrate, -- folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. |