They on the rolling deep securely hung, And calmly rode the restless waves among, Nor pleased it less around me to behold, Far up the beach, the yeasty sea-foam roll'd; Or from the shore upborne, to see on high Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly : While the salt spray that clashing billows form Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm.
By N. P. WILLIS, the American poet.
"ROOM for the leper! room!"
The cry pass'd on "Room for the leper! room! " Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills The early risen poor were coming in Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up
Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swells, Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick Hailing the welcome light, and sounds that chase The death-like images of the dark away.
"Room for the leper!" And aside they stood, Matron and child, and pitiless manhood-all Who met him on his way-and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A leper, with the ashes on his brow, Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip A covering, stepping painfully and slow, And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, Crying" Unclean! unclean!"
'Twas now the depth
Of the Judean summer, and the leaves, Whose shadow lay so still upon the path
Had budded on the clear and flashing eye Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young And eminently beautiful, and life Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip And sparkled in his glance: and in his mien There was a gracious pride that every eye Follow'd with benisons-and this was he. With the soft air of summer there had come A torpor on his frame, which not the speed Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor ought that stirs The spirit to its bent, might drive away. The blood beat not as wont within his veins : Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his port With all his loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. Even his voice was changed—a languid moan Taking the place of the clear silver key; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light And very air, were steep'd in sluggishness. He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise The arrowy jeered like an aspen shook. Day after day he lay as if in sleep:
His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, cover'd him.
And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, -And Helon was a leper!
Day was breaking When at the altar of the temple stood
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:—
Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more: Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er, And stay thou not to hear
Voices that call thee on the way: and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by.
Wet not thy burning lip
In streams that to a human dwelling glide, Nor rest thee where the covert fountains bide: Nor kneel thee down to dip
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink.
And pass not thou between
The weary traveller, and the cooling breeze, And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen;
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, Nor pluck the standing corn or yellow grain.
And now depart! and when
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who from the tribes of men,
Selected thee to feel his chastening rod, Depart, oh leper, and forget not God!
And he went forth alone: not one, of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort to him. Yea, he went on his way, Sick, and heart-broken, and alone to die; For God hath cursed the leper!
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd The loathsome water to his parched lips, Praying that he might be so bless'd-to die! Footsteps approach'd, and with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer to his lip,
Crying "Unclean! unclean!" and, in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name, "Helon !"-the voice was like the master tone Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon, arise!" and he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before him.
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore: No followers at his back, nor in his hand Buckler, or sword, or spear; yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled, A kindly condescension graced his lips, The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. His garb was simple, and his sandals worn: His statue modell'd with a perfect grace; His countenance, the impress of a God, Touch'd with the open innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; his hair, unshorn, Fell on his shoulders; and his curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He look'd on Ĥelon earnestly awhile,
As if his heart was moved, and stooping down, He took a little water in his hand,
And laid it on his brow, and said "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd him.
WHERE trace we summer's flight? O'er faded roses, O'er the thinn'd leaves where the pale light reposes Lifeless and cold;
In the swell'd waves, that with a wilder sally Rush through the green recesses of the valley, And by the keen wind whistling o'er the wold; By the still'd music of the nightingale,
Of breezes, sending over hill and dale A low mysterious moan.
But here are lips whose roseate hue hath faded, Tresses that erst in golden brightness shaded The cheerful brow
Now early tinged with grey; and tears are swelling Through droop'd eyelids, sadly, sadly telling Of a young bosom sorely mark'd to woe- Oh! can we here the summer's parting trace? Why with its flowers and light
Took it the youth and gladness from that face? Alas, for summer's flight!
Ah, 'tis not summer's flight hath dimm'd the glory Of those clear eyes, and mingled tresses hoary Like wither'd leaves;
Not for the summer flowers her sorrows waken, A fairer blossom from her path is taken
Than all the spring-tide brings or summer weaves. Where are the eyes that were the stars of love
Where did their light depart?
What music went from every dale and grove
With that young sister's heart?
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