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While thus he spoke, his hearers wept; but some,
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those
That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl’d
At their great lord. He, when it seem’d he saw
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork’d
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head,
Sat anger-charm’d from sorrow, soldierlike,
Erect: but when the preacher’s cadence flow’d
Softening thro’ all the gentle attributes
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch’d his face,
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth;
And `O pray God that he hold up’ she thought
`Or surely I shall shame myself and him.’

`Nor yours the blame–for who beside your hearths
Can take her place–if echoing me you cry
“Our house is left unto us desolate?”
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known,
O thou that stonest, hadst thou understood
The things belonging to thy peace and ours!
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls
Doom upon kings, or in the waste `Repent’?
Is not our own child on the narrow way,
Who down to those that saunter in the broad
Cries `come up hither,’ as a prophet to us?
Is there no stoning save with flint and rock?
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify–
No desolation but by sword and fire?
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss.
Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers,
Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven.
But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek,
Exceeding “poor in spirit”–how the words
Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean
Vileness, we are grown so proud–I wish’d my voice
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God
To blow these sacrifices thro’ the world–
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine
To inflame the tribes: but there–out yonder–earth
Lightens from her own central Hell–O there
The red fruit of an old idolatry–
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast,
They cling together in the ghastly sack–
The land all shambles–naked marriages
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder’d France,
By shores that darken with the gathering wolf,
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea.
Is this a time to madden madness then?
Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride?
May Pharaoh’s darkness, folds as dense as those
Which hid the Holiest from the people’s eyes
Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all:
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it:
O rather pray for those and pity them,
Who thro’ their own desire accomplish’d bring
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave–
Who broke the bond which they desired to break,
Which else had link’d their race with times to come–
Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity,
Grossly contriving their dear daughter’s good–
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat
Ignorant, devising their own daughter’s death!
May not that earthly chastisement suffice?
Have not our love and reverence left them bare?
Will not another take their heritage?
Will there be children’s laughter in their hall
For ever and for ever, or one stone
Left on another, or is it a light thing
That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend,
I made by these the last of all my race
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried
Christ ere His agony to those that swore
Not by the temple but the gold, and made
Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord,
And left their memories a world’s curse–“Behold,
Your house is left unto you desolate?”‘