Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell - James Russell Lowell - Страница 40

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Worn and footsore was the Prophet,

When he gained the holy hill;

'God has left the earth,' he murmured,

'Here his presence lingers still.

'God of all the olden prophets,

Wilt thou speak with men no more?

Have I not as truly served thee

As thy chosen ones of yore?

'Hear me, guider of my fathers,

Lo! a humble heart is mine;

By thy mercy I beseech thee

Grant thy servant but a sign!'

Bowing then his head, he listened

For an answer to his prayer;

No loud burst of thunder followed,

Not a murmur stirred the air:

But the tuft of moss before him

Opened while he waited yet,

And, from out the rock's hard bosom,

Sprang a tender violet.

'God! I thank thee,' said the Prophet;

'Hard of heart and blind was I,

Looking to the holy mountain

For the gift of prophecy.

'Still thou speakest with thy children

Freely as in eld sublime;

Humbleness, and love, and patience,

Still give empire over time.

'Had I trusted in my nature,

And had faith in lowly things,

Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me.

And set free my spirit's wings.

'But I looked for signs and wonders,

That o'er men should give me sway;

Thirsting to be more than mortal,

I was even less than clay.

'Ere I entered on my journey,

As I girt my loins to start,

Ran to me my little daughter,

The beloved of my heart;

'In her hand she held a flower,

Like to this as like may be,

Which, beside my very threshold,

She had plucked and brought to me.'