The Man Of Uz.

A JOYOUS FESTIVAL.--                             The gathering back     Of scattered flowrets to the household wreath.     Brothers and sisters from their sever'd homes     Meeting with ardent smile, to renovate     The love that sprang from cradle memories     And childhood's sports, and whose perennial stream     Still threw fresh crystals o'er the sands of life.     --Each bore some treasured picture of the past,     Some graphic incident, by mellowing time     Made beautiful, while ever and anon,     Timbrel and harp broke forth, each pause between.     Banquet and wine-cup, and the dance, gave speed     To youthful spirits, and prolong'd the joy.                     *     *     *     *     *     The patriarch father, with a chasten'd heart     Partook his children's mirth, having God's fear     Ever before him. Earnestly he brought     His offerings and his prayers for every one     Of that beloved group, lest in the swell     And surging superflux of happiness     They might forget the Hand from whence it came,     Perchance, displease the Almighty.                             Many a care     Had he that wealth creates. Not such as lurks     In heaps metallic, which the rust corrodes,     But wealth that fructifies within the earth     Whence cometh bread, or o'er its surface roves     In peaceful forms of quadrupedal life     That thronging round the world's first father came     To take their names, 'mid Eden's tranquil shades,     Ere sin was born.                             Obedient to the yoke,     Five hundred oxen turn'd the furrow'd glebe     Where agriculture hides his buried seed     Waiting the harvest hope, while patient wrought     An equal number of that race who share     The labor of the steed, without his praise.     --Three thousand camels, with their arching necks,     Ships of the desert, knelt to do his will,     And bear his surplus wealth to distant climes,     While more than twice three thousand snowy sheep     Whitened the hills. Troops of retainers fed     These flocks and herds, and their subsistence drew     From the same lord,--so that this man of Uz     Greater than all the magnates of the east,     Dwelt in old time before us.                             True he gave,     And faithfully, the hireling his reward,     Counting such justice 'mid the happier forms     Of Charity, which with a liberal hand     He to the sad and suffering poor dispensed.     Eyes was he to the blind, and to the lame     Feet, while the stranger and the traveller found     Beneath, the welcome shelter of his roof     The blessed boon of hospitality.     To him the fatherless and widow sought     For aid and counsel. Fearlessly he rose     For those who had no helper. His just mind     Brought stifled truth to light, disarm'd the wiles     Of power, and gave deliverance to the weak.     He pluck'd the victim from the oppressor's grasp,     And made the tyrant tremble.                             To his words     Men listened, as to lore oracular,     And when beside the gate he took his seat     The young kept silence, and the old rose up     To do him honor. After his decree     None spake again, for as a prince he dwelt     Wearing the diadem of righteousness,     And robed in that respect which greatness wins     When leagued with goodness, and by wisdom crown'd.     The grateful prayers and blessings of the souls     Ready to perish, silently distill'd     Upon him, as he slept.                             So as a tree     Whose root is by the river's brink, he grew     And flourish'd, while the dews like balm-drops hung     All night upon his branches.                             Yet let none     Of woman born, presume to build his hopes     On the worn cliff of brief prosperity,     Or from the present promise, predicate     The future joy. The exulting bird that sings     Mid the green curtains of its leafy nest     His tuneful trust untroubled there to live,     And there to die, may meet the archer's shaft     When next it spreads the wing.                             The tempest folds     O'er the smooth forehead of the summer noon     Its undiscover'd purpose, to emerge     Resistless from its armory, and whelm     In floods of ruin, ere the day decline.                     *     *     *     *     *     Lightning and sword!                             Swift messengers, and sharp,     Reapers that leave no gleanings. In their path     Silence and desolation fiercely stalk.     --O'er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain'd plains     There is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks,     The fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain.     The Man of Uz, who stood but yestermorn     Above all compeers,--clothed with wealth and power,     To day is poorer than his humblest hind.     A whirlwind from the desert!                             All unwarn'd     Its fury came. Earth like a vassal shook.     Majestic trees flew hurtling through the air     Like rootless reeds.                             There was no time for flight.     Buried in household wrecks, all helpless lay     Masses of quivering life.                             Job's eldest son     That day held banquet for their numerous line     At his own house. With revelry and song,     One moment in the glow of kindred hearts     The lordly mansion rang, the next they lay     Crush'd neath its ruins.                             _He_,--the childless sire,     Last of his race, and lonely as the pine     That crisps and blackens 'neath the lightning shaft     Upon the cliff, with such a rushing tide     The mountain billows of his misery came,     Drove they not Reason from her beacon-hold?     Swept they not his strong trust in Heaven away?     List,--list,--the sufferer speaks.                             "The Lord who gave     Hath taken away,--and blessed be His name."     Oh Patriarch!--teach us, mid this changeful life     Not to mistake the ownership of joys     Entrusted to us for a little while,     But when the Great Dispenser shall reclaim     His loans, to render them with praises back,     As best befits the indebted.                             Should a tear     Moisten the offering, He who knows our frame     And well remembereth that we are but dust,     Is full of pity.                             It was said of old     Time conquer'd Grief. But unto me it seems     That Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wide     The chasm between us, and our smitten joys     And saps the strength wherewith at first we went     Into life's battle. We perchance, have dream'd     That the sweet smile the sunbeam of our home     The prattle of the babe the Spoiler seiz'd,     Had but gone from us for a little while,--     And listen'd in our fallacy of hope     At hush of eve for the returning step     That wake the inmost pulses of the heart     To extasy,--till iron-handed Grief     Press'd down the _nevermore_ into our soul,     Deadening us with its weight.                             The man of Uz     As the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'd     The desolation of his poverty     Felt every nerve that at the first great shock     Was paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink     As from a fresh-cut wound. There was no son     To come in beauty of his manly prime     With words of counsel and with vigorous hand     To aid him in his need, no daughter's arm     To twine around him in his weariness,     Nor kiss of grandchild at the even-tide     Going to rest, with prayer upon its lips.     Still a new trial waits.                             The blessed health     Heaven's boon, thro' which with unbow'd form we bear     Burdens and ills, forsook him. Maladies     Of fierce and festering virulence attack'd     His swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding pains     Laid his strength prostrate, till he counted life     A loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleep     That sweet restorer of the wasted frame,     And mid his tossings to and fro, he moan'd     Oh, when shall I arise, and Night be gone!     Despondence seized him. To the lowliest place     Alone he stole, and sadly took his seat     In dust and ashes.                             She, his bosom friend     The sharer of his lot for many years,     Sought out his dark retreat. Shuddering she saw     His kingly form like living sepulchre,     And in the maddening haste of sorrow said     God hath forgotten.                             She with him had borne     Unuttered woe o'er the untimely graves     Of all whom she had nourished,--shared with him     The silence of a home that hath no child,     The plunge from wealth to want, the base contempt     Of menial and of ingrate;--but to see     The dearest object of adoring love     Her next to God, a prey to vile disease     Hideous and loathsome, all the beauty marred     That she had worshipped from her ardent youth     Deeming it half divine, she could not bear,     Her woman's strength gave way, and impious words     In her despair she uttered.                             But her lord     To deeper anguish stung by her defect     And rash advice, reprovingly replied     Pointing to Him who meeteth out below     Both good and evil in mysterious love,     And she was silenced.                             What a sacred power     Hath hallow'd Friendship o'er the nameless ills     That throng our pilgrimage. Its sympathy,     Doth undergird the drooping, and uphold     The foot that falters in its miry path.     It grows more precious, as the hair grows grey.     Time's alchymy that rendereth so much dross     Back for our gay entrustments, shows more pure     The perfect essence of its sanctity,     Gold unalloyed.                             How doth the cordial grasp,     Of hands that twined with ours in school days, now     Delight us as our sunbeam nears the west,     Soothing, perchance our self-esteem with proofs     That 'mid all faults the good have loved us still,     And quickening with redoubled energy     To do or suffer.                             The three friends of Job     Who in the different regions where they dwelt     Teman, and Naamah and the Shuhite land,     Heard tidings of his dire calamity,     Moved by one impulse, journey'd to impart     Their sorrowing sympathy.                             Yet when they saw     Him fallen so low, so chang'd that scarce a trace     Remained to herald his identity     Down by his side upon the earth, they sate     Uttering no language save the gushing tear,--     Spontaneous homage to a grief so great.                     *     *     *     *     *     Oh Silence, born of Wisdom! we have felt     Thy fitness, when beside the smitten friend     We took our place. The voiceless sympathy     The tear, the tender pressure of the hand     Interpreted more perfectly than words     The purpose of our soul.                             We _speak_ to err,     Waking to agony some broken chord     Or bleeding nerve that slumbered. Words are weak,     When God's strong discipline doth try the soul;     And that deep silence was more eloquent     Than all the pomp of speech.                             Yet the long pause     Of days and nights, gave scope for troubled thought     And their bewildered minds unskillfully     Launching all helmless on a sea of doubt     Explored the cause for which such woes were sent,     Forgetful that this mystery of life     Yields not to man's solution. Passing on     From natural pity to philosophy     That deems Heaven's judgments penal, they inferr'd     Some secret sin unshrived by penitence,     That drew such awful visitations down.     While studying thus the _wherefore_, with vain toil     Of painful cogitation, lo! a voice     Hollow and hoarse, as from the mouldering tomb,     "Perish the day in which I saw the light!     The day when first my mother's nursing care     Sheltered my helplessness. Let it not come     Into the number of the joyful months,     Let blackness stain it and the shades of death     Forever terrify it.                             For it cut     Not off as an untimely birth my span,     Nor let me sleep where the poor prisoners hear     No more the oppressor, where the wicked cease     From troubling and the weary are at rest.     Now as the roar of waves my sorrows swell,     And sighs like tides burst forth till I forget     To eat my bread. That which I greatly feared     Hath come upon me. Not in heedless pride     Nor wrapped in arrogance of full content     I dwelt amid the tide of prosperous days,     And yet this trouble came."                             With mien unmoved     The Temanite reprovingly replied:     "Who can refrain longer from words, even though     To speak be grief? Thou hast the instructor been     Of many, and their model how to act.     When trial came upon them, if their knees     Bow'd down, thou saidst, "be strong," and they obey'd.     But now it toucheth thee and thou dost shrink,     And murmuring, faint. The monitor forgets     The precepts he hath taught. Is this thy faith,     Thy confidence, the uprightness of thy way?     Whoever perish'd being innocent?     And when were those who walk'd in righteous ways     Cut off? How oft I've seen that those who sow     The seeds of evil secretly, and plow     Under a veil of darkness, reap the same.                     *     *     *     *     *     In visions of the night, when deepest sleep     Falls upon men, fear seiz'd me, all my bones     Trembled, and every stiffening hair rose up.     A spirit pass'd before me, but I saw     No form thereof. I knew that there it stood,     Even though my straining eyes discern'd it not.     Then from its moveless lips a voice burst forth,     "Is man more just than God? Is mortal man     More pure than He who made him?                             Lo, he puts     No trust in those who serve him, and doth charge     Angels with folly. How much less in them     Dwellers in tents of clay, whose pride is crush'd     Before the moth. From morn to eve they die     And none regard it."                             So despise thou not     The chastening of the Almighty, ever just,     For did thy spirit please him, it should rise     More glorious from the storm-cloud, all the earth     At peace with thee, new offspring like the grass     Cheering thy home, and when thy course was done     Even as a shock of corn comes fully ripe     Into the garner should thy burial be     Beldv'd and wept of all."                             Mournful arose     The sorrowful response.                             "Oh that my grief     Were in the balance laid by faithful hands     And feeling hearts. To the afflicted soul     Friends should be comforters. But mine have dealt     Deceitfully, as fails the shallow brook     When summer's need is sorest.                             Did I say     Bring me a gift? or from your flowing wealth     Give solace to my desolate penury?     Or with your pitying influence neutralize     My cup of scorn poured out by abject hands?     That thus ye mock me with contemptuous words     And futile arguments, and dig a pit     In which to whelm the man you call a friend?     Still darkly hinting at some heinous sin     Mysteriously concealed?                             Writes conscious guilt     No transcript on the brow? Hangs it not out     Its signal there, altho' it seem to hide     'Neath an impervious shroud?                             Look thro' the depths     Of my unshrinking eye, deep, deep within.     What see ye there? what gives suspicion birth?     As longs the laborer for the setting sun,     Watching the lengthening shadows that foretell     The time of rest, yet day by day returns     To the same task again, so I endure     Wearisome nights and months of burdening woe.     I would not alway live this loathed life     Whose days are vanity. Soon shall I sleep     Low in the dust, and when the morning comes     And thro' its curtaining mists ye seek my face     I shall not be."                     *     *     *     *     *                             Earnest the Shuhite spake,     "How long shall these thy words, like eddying winds     Fall empty on the ear?                             Doth God pervert     Justice and judgment? If thy way was pure,     Thy supplication from an upright heart     He would awake and make thy latter end     More blest than thy beginning.                             For inquire     Of ancient times, of History's honor'd scroll     And of the grey-hair'd fathers, if our words     Seem light, we who were born but yesterday.     Ask them and they shall teach thee, as the rush,     Or as the flag forsaken of the pod,     So shall the glory of the hypocrite     Fade in its greenness.                             Tho' his house may seem     Awhile to flourish, it shall not endure.     Even tho' he grasp it with despairing strength     It shall deceive his trust and pass away,     As fleets the spider's filmy web. Behold     God will not cast away the perfect man     Nor help the evil doer."                     *     *     *     *     *                             In low tones,     Sepulchral, and with pain, the sufferer spake,     "I know that this is truth, but how can man     Be just with God? How shall he dare contend     With Him who stretches out the sky and treads     Upon the mountain billows of the sea,     And sealeth up the stars?                             Array'd in strength,     He passeth by me, but I see Him not.     I hear His chariot-wheels, yet fear to ask     Where goest Thou?                             If I, indeed, were pure,     And perfect, like the model ye see fit     To press upon me with your sharpest words,     I would not in mine arrogance arise     And reason with Him, but all humbly make     Petition to my Judge.                             If there were one     To shield me from His terrors, and to stand     As mediator, I might dare to ask     Why didst Thou give this unrequested boon     Of life, to me, unhappy? My few days     Are swifter than a post. As the white sail     Fades in the mist, as the strong eagle's wing     Leaves no receding trace, they flee away,     They see no good.                             Hath not Thy mighty hand     Fashion'd and made this curious form of clay,     Fenc'd round with bones and sinews, and inspired     By a mysterious soul? Oh be not stern     Against Thy creature, as the Lion marks     His destin'd prey.                             Relent and let me take     Comfort a little, ere I go the way     Whence I return no more, to that far land     Of darkness and the dreary shades of death."                     *     *     *     *     *     Scarce had he ceas'd ere Zophar's turbid thoughts     Made speed to answer.                             "Shall a tide of talk     Wash out transgression? If thou choose to set     The truth at nought, must others hold their peace?     Hast thou not boasted that thy deeds and thoughts     Were perfect in the almighty Maker's sight?     Canst thou by searching find out God? Behold     Higher than heaven it is, what canst thou do?     Deeper than deepest hell, what canst thou know?     Why wilt thou ignorantly deem thyself     Unblamed before Him?                             Oh that He would speak,     And put to shame thine arrogance.                             His glance     Discerns all wickedness, all vain pretence     To sanctity and wisdom. Were thine heart     Rightly prepared, and evil put away     From that and from thy house, then shouldst thou lift     Thy spotless face, clear as the noon-day sun     Stedfast and fearless. Yea, thou shouldst forget     Thy misery, as waters that have past     Away forever.                             Thou shouldst be secure     And dig about thee and take root, and rest,     While those who scorn thee now, with soul abased,     Should make their suit unto thee.                             But the eyes     Of wicked men shall fail, and as the groan     Of him who giveth up the ghost, shall be     Their frustrate hope."                             Dejectedly, as one     Who wearied in a race, despairs to reach     The destined goal, nor yet consents to leave     His compeers masters of an unwon field.     Job said,--                             "No doubt ye think to have attained     Monopoly of knowledge, and with you     Wisdom shall die. This modesty of creed     Befits ye well. Yet what have ye alledg'd     Unheard before? what great discoveries made?     Who knoweth not such things as ye have told?     Despised am I by those who call'd me friend     In prosperous days. Like a dim, waning lamp     About to be extinguished am I held     By the dull minds of those who dwell at ease.     Weak reasoners that ye are, ye have essay'd     To speak for God. Suppose ye He doth need     Such advocacy? whose creative hand     Holdeth the soul of every living thing,     And breath of all mankind?                             He breaketh down,     And who can build again? Princes and kings     Are nothing in his sight. Disrobed of power     Ceaseless they wander and He heedeth not.     Those whom the world have worship'd seem as fools.     He lifteth up the nations at His will,     Or sweeps them with his lightest breath away     Like noteless atoms.                             Silence is for you     The truest wisdom. Creatures that ye count     Inferior to yourselves, who in thin air     Spread the light wing, or thro' the waters glide,     Or roam the earth, might teach if ye would hear     And be instructed by them.                          Hold your peace!     Even tho' He slay me I will trust in Him     For He is my salvation, He alone;     At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare     To stand, or answer.                             Man, of woman born     Is of few days, and full of misery.     Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down,     He fleeth like a shadow. What is man     That God regardeth him? The forest tree     Fell'd by the woodman may have hope to live     And sprout again, and thro' the blessed touch     Of waters at the root put forth new buds     And tender branches like a plant. But man     Shorn of his strength, doth waste away and die,     He giveth up the ghost and where is he?     As slides the mountain from its heaving base     Hurling its masses o'er the startled vale,     As the rent rock resumes its place no more,     As the departed waters leave no trace     Save the groov'd channels where they held their course     Among the fissur'd stones, his form of dust     With its chang'd countenance, is sent away     And all the honors that he sought to leave     Behind him to his sons, avail him not."     He ceas'd and Eliphaz rejoin'd,                             "A man     Of wisdom dealeth not in empty words     That like the east wind stirs the unsettled sands     To profitless revolt. Thou dost decry     Our speech and proudly justify thyself     Before thy God. He to whose searching eye     Heavens' pure immaculate ether seems unclean.     Ask of tradition, ask the white hair'd men     Much older than thy father, since to us     Thou deign'st no credence. Say they not to thee,     All, as with one consent, the wicked man     Travaileth with fruitless pain, a dreadful sound     Forever in his ears; the mustering tramp     Of hostile legions on the distant cloud,     A far-off echo from the woe to come?     Such is his lot who sinfully contends     Against the just will of the Judging One,     Lifting his puny arm in rebel pride     And rushing like a madman on his doom.     The wealth he may have gathered shall dissolve     And turn to ashes mid devouring flame.     His branch shall not be green, but as the vine     Casteth her unripe grapes, as thro' the leaves     Of rich and lustrous hue, the olive buds     Untimely strew the ground, shall be his trust     Who in the contumacy of his pride     Would fain deceive both others and himself."     To whom, the Man of Uz,--                             "These occult truths     If such ye deem them, I have heard before;     Oh miserable comforters! I too     Stood but your soul in my soul's stead, could heap     Vain, bitter words, and shake my head in scorn.     But I would study to assuage your pain,     And solace shed upon your stricken hearts     With balm-drops of sweet speech.                             Yet, as for me,     I speak and none regard, or drooping sit     In mournful silence, and none heed my woe.     They smite me on the cheek reproachfully,     And slander me in secret, though my cause     And witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven.     My record is on high.                             Oh Thou, whose hand     Hath thus made desolate all my company,     And left me a poor, childless man--behold     They who once felt it pride to call me friend,     Make of my name a by-word, which was erst     Like harp or tabret to their venal lip.     Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow     Furrow'd with wrinkles.                             Soon I go the way     Whence I shall not return. The grave, my house,     Is ready for me. In its mouldering clay     My bed I make, and say unto the worm     Thou art my sister."                             With unpitying voice     Not comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake.     "How long ere thou shalt make an end of words     So profitless and vain? Thou dost account     Us vile as beasts. But shall the stable earth     With all its rocks and mountains be removed     For thy good pleasure?                             See, the light forsake     The wicked man. Darkness and loneliness     Enshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall be     Mid snares and traps, and his own counsel fail     To guide him safely. By the heel, the gin     Shall seize him, and the robber's hand prevail     To rifle and destroy his treasure hoard.     Secret misgivings feed upon his strength,     And terrors waste his courage. He shall find     In his own tabernacle no repose,     Nor confidence. His withering root shall draw     No nutriment, and the unsparing ax     Cut off his branches. From a loathing world     He shall be chased away, and leave behind     No son or nephew to bear up his name     Among the people. No kind memories     Shall linger round his ashes, or refresh     The bearts of men. They who come after him     Shall be astonish'd at his doom, as they     Who went before him, view'd it with affright.     Such is the lot of those who know not God     Or wickedly renounce Him."                             Earnestly     Replied the suffering man,                             "Ye vex my soul     And break it into pieces. These ten times     Have ye reproach'd me, without sense of shame     Or touch of sympathy. If I have err'd     As without witness ye essay to prove     'Tis my concern, not yours.                             But yet, how vain     To speak of wrong, or plead the cause of truth     Before the unjust.                             Can ye not understand     God in his wisdom hath afflicted me?     Ilis hand hath reft away my crown and stripp'd     Me of my glory. Kindred blood vouchsafes     No aid or solace in my deep distress.     Estrang'd and far away, like statues cold     Brethren and kinsfolk stand. Familiar friends     Frown on me as a stranger. They who dwell     In my own house and eat my bread, despise me.     I call'd my own tried servant, but he gave     No answer or regard. My maidens train'd     For household service, to perform my will     Count me an alien;--even with my wife     My voice hath lost its power. Young children rise     And push away my feet and mock my words.     Yea, the best loved, most garner'd in my heart     Do turn against me as a thing abhorr'd.     Have pity, pity on me, oh my friends!     The hand of God hath smitten me.                             I know     That my Redeemer liveth, and shall stand     At last upon the earth, and though in death     Worms shall destroy this body, in my flesh     Shall I see God."                     *     *     *     *     *                             This glorious burst of faith     Springing from depths of misery and pain     Awed them a moment, like the lightning's flash,     Cleaving the cloud. But gathering strength again,     They sought the conflict.                             "Thou, who art so wise,     Hast thou not learn'd how baseless is the joy     And boasting of the hypocrite? His head     Up to the heavens in excellence and pride     May seem to mount, yet shall he swiftly fall     Leaving no trace. Though still he toils to keep     His sin a secret from his fellow-men,     Like a sweet, stolen morsel, hiding it     Under his tongue, yet shall the veil be rent.     God's fearful judgments shall make evident     What he hath done in darkness. Vipers' tongues     And the dire poison of the asp, shall be     His recompense. Terrors shall strike him through,     An inward fire of sharp remorse, unblown     By mortal hand, shall on his vitals feed,     And all his strength consume. His wealth shall fleet,     And they who trusted to become his heirs     Embrace a shadow, for his goods shall flow     Away, as the false brook forsakes its sands.     This is the portion of the hypocrite,     The heritage appointed him by God."                     *     *     *     *     *     To Zophar answered Job,--                             "Hear ye my speech,     And when 'tis done, mock on. Not unto man     Is my complaint. For were it so, my heart     Would sink in darker depths of hopeless woe.     Say ye that earth's 'prosperity' rewards     The righteous man? Why do the wicked live,     Grow old, and magnify themselves in power?     Their offspring flourish round them, their abodes     Are safe from fear. Their cattle multiply     And widely o'er the hills and pastures green     Wander their healthful herds. Forth like a flock     They send their little ones, with dance and song,     Tabret and harp. They spend their days in wealth     And sink to slumber in the quiet grave.     Yet unto God they said, Depart from us,     For we desire no knowledge of thy ways.     Why should we serve the Almighty? Who is he?     And what our profit if we pray to Him?     Close by these impious ones lies down to sleep,     One in the strength and glory of his prime,     Whom sorrow never touch'd, nor age impair'd;     And still another, wan misfortune's child,     Nurtur'd in bitterness, who never took     His meat with pleasure. Side by side they rest     On Death's oblivious pillow. Do ye say     Their varied lot below, mark'd their deserts?     In retribution just?                     *     *     *     *     *                             But as for you     With eyes so sharp for your own selfish ends,     Who by the wayside ask where'er ye go,     "_Where is the dwelling of the prince?_ and seek     Gain more than godliness, I know full well     Your deep contempt for one too poor to bribe     Your false allegiance, and the unkind device     Ye wrongfully imagine.                             Will ye teach     Knowledge to God? Doth He not wisely judge     The highest? and reserve the sons of guilt     For the destruction that awaiteth them?"                     *     *     *     *     *     In quick rejoinder, Eliphaz replied,     "What is thy fancied goodness in the sight     Of the Almighty? Is it gain to Him     If thou art righteous? Would it add to Him     Gladness or glory, that thy ways should be     What thou call'st perfect?                             Rather turn thine eyes     Upon the record of thy sins, and see     Their countless number.                             Hast thou taken a pledge     From thy poor brother's hand? or reft away     The garment from the shivering? or withheld     Bread from the hungry? or the widow sent     Empty away? not given the weary soul     What it implored? nor bound the broken arm     Of the forsaken fatherless?                             For this     Have snares beset thee? and a secret fear     Dismay'd thy spirit? and a rayless night     Shut over thee?                             Look to the height of heaven,     Above the utmost star. Is not God there?     Think'st thou that aught can intercept His sight     Or bar His righteous judgment? He who makes     The thickest clouds His footstool, when He walks     Upon the circuit of the highest heavens?     Acquaint thyself with Him and be at peace,     Return to Him, and He shall build thee up.     Take thou His precepts to thine inmost heart     That thy lost blessings may revisit thee.     Put far away thy foster'd sins, and share     The swelling flood-tide of prosperity.     Thou shalt have silver at thy will, and gold,     The gold of Ophir in thy path shall lie     As stones that pave the brooks.                             Make thou thy prayer,     And pay thy vows, and He will hear thy voice     And give thee light, and thy desires confirm:     For He will save the humble and protect     The innocent and still deliver those     Whose hands are pure."                             To whom, the Man of Uz,     "Oh that I knew where I might find my Judge,     That I might press even to His seat, and plead     My cause before Him. Would He strike me dumb     With His great power? Nay,--rather would he give     Strength to the weakness that would answer Him.     Lo! I go forward,--but He is not there,--     And backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not.     On the left hand, His works surround me still,     But He is absent,--on the right, I gaze,     Yet doth He hide Himself.                             But well He knows     My way, and when the time of trial's o'er,     And the refining fire hath purg'd the dross,     I shall come forth as gold. My feet have kept     The path appointed, nor from His commands     Unduly swerved, for I have prized His word     More than my needful food.                             Yet He performs     What His wise counsel hath decreed for me,     Though sometimes sinks my soften'd heart beneath     The terror of His stroke.                             There are, who seize     With violence whate'er their eyes desire;     Gorging themselves upon the stolen flock     And leaving desolate the rifled hut     Of the defenceless. Solitary ones     Hide from their robberies, for forth they go     Into the wilderness, their prey to hunt     Like ravening beasts.                             There are, who watch to slay,     Rising before the dawn, or wrapp'd in night     Roaming with stealthy footstep, as a thief,     To smite their victims, while the wounded groan     Struck by their fatal shaft.                             There are, who do     Such deeds of utter darkness as detest     The gaze of day. Muffling their face, they dig     Their way to habitations where they leave     Shame and dishonor.                             Though He seem to sleep,     God's eye is on their ways. A little while     They wrap themselves in secret infamy,     Or proudly flourish,--but as the tall tree     Yields in a moment to the wrecking blast,     As 'neath the sickle falls the crisping corn,     Shall they be swept away, and leave no trace."                     *     *     *     *     *     Bildad, the Shuhite, rose in act to speak.     "Dominion is with God, and fear. He makes     Peace in his own high places. Dost thou know     The number of His armies? Or on whom     His light ariseth not?                             How then can man     Be justified with God? or he be pure     Born of a woman. Lo! the cloudless Moon,     And yon unsullied stars, are in His sight     Dim and impure. Can man who is a worm     Be spotless with his Maker?"                             Hark, the voice     Of the afflicted man:                             "How dost thou help     Him that is powerless? how sustain the arm     That fails in strength? how counsel him who needs     Wisdom? and how declare the righteous truth     Just as it is?                             To Him who reads the soul,     Hades is naked, and the realms of Death     Have naught to cover them. This pendent Earth     Hangs on his word,--in gathering clouds he binds     The ponderous waters, till at his command     They rend their filmy prison. Day and night     Await his nod to run their measured course.     Heaven's pillars and its everlasting gates     Tremble at his reproof. The cleaving sea     And man's defeated pride confess his power.     Yet the same Hand that garnisheth the skies     Disdaineth not to fashion and sustain     The crooked serpent. But how small a part     Of all its works are understood by us     Dim dwellers in this lowly vestibule,     And by the thunders of mysterious power     Still held in awe.                             As the Eternal lives     Who hath bow'd down my soul, as long as breath     Inspires this mortal frame, these lips shall ne'er     Utter deceit, nor cast away the wealth     Of a good conscience. While I live I'll hold     Fast mine integrity,--nor justify     The slanderous charges of a secret guilt     Ye bring against me.                             For what is the gain     Of the base hypocrite when God shall take     Away his perjured soul? Yourselves have seen     How often in this life the wicked taste     Of retribution. The oppressor bears     Sway for a while,--but look!--the downfall comes.     His offspring shall not flourish, nor his grave     Be wet with widow's tears.                             The unjust rich man     Heapeth up silver for a stranger's hand,     He hoardeth raiment with a miser's greed     To robe he knows not who, though he himself     Had grudg'd to wear it. Boastfully he builds     A costly mansion to preserve his name     Among the people. But like the slight booth,     Brief lodge of summer, shall it pass away.     Terrors without a cause, disable him     And drown his courage. Like a driven leaf     Before the whirlwind, shall he hasten down     To a dishonor'd tomb. Men shall rejoice,     And clap their hands, and hiss him from his place     When he departs.                             Surely, there is a vein     For silver, and a secret bed for gold     Which man discovers. Where the iron sleeps     In darkest chambers of the mine he knows,     And how the brass is molten. But a Mind     Deeper than his, close-hidden things explores,     Searching out all perfection.                             Earth unveils     The mystic treasures of her matron breast,     Bread for her children, gems like living flame,     Sapphires, whose azure emulates the skies,     And dust of gold. Yet there's a curtain'd path     Which the unfettered denizens of air     Have not descried, nor even the piercing eye     Of the black vulture seen. The lion's whelps     In their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sire     Have never trod it.                             There's a Hand that bares     The roots of mountains at its will, and cuts     Through rifted rocks a channel, where the streams     And rivers freely flow--an Eye that scans     Each precious thing.                             But where doth Wisdom dwell?     And in what curtain'd chamber was the birth     Of Understanding?                             The great Sea uplifts     Its hand in adjuration, and declares     "_'Tis not with me,_" and its unfathom'd deep     In subterranean thunders, echoing cry     "_No, not with me._"                             Offer ye not for them     Silver, or Ophir's gold, nor think to exchange     Onyx, or sapphire, or the coral branch     Or crystal gem where hides imprison'd light,     Nor make ye mention of the precious pearl     Or Ethiopian topaz, for their price     Transcendeth rubies, or the dazzling ray     Of concentrated jewels.                             In what place     Are found these wondrous treasures? Who will show     Their habitation? which alike defies     The ken of those who soar, or those who delve     In cells profound.                             Death and destruction say,     From their hoarse caverns, "We have heard their fame     But know them not."                             Lo! He who weighs the winds     Measures the floods, controls the surging sea     And points the forked lightnings where to play,     He, unto whom all mysteries are plain     All secrets open, all disguises clear,     Saith unto man the questioner,--                             "Behold     The fear of God is wisdom, and to break     The sway of evil and depart from sin     Is understanding."                             Anguish wrings my soul     As in my hours of musing I restore     The picture of my lost prosperity,     When round my side my loving children drew     And from my happy home my steps were hail'd     Where'er I went. The fatherless and poor,     And he who had no helper, welcomed me     As one to right their wrongs, and pluck the spoil     From the oppressor's teeth. Pale widows raised     The glistening eye of gratitude, and they     Whose sight was quench'd, at my remembered tones     Pour'd blessings on me. Overflowing wealth     Brought me no titles that I held so dear     As father of the poor, and comforter     Of all who mourn.                             When in the gate I sate     The nobles did me honor, and the wise     Sought counsel of me. To my words the young     Gave earnest heed, the white-hair'd men stood up,     And princes waited for my speech, as wait     The fields in summer for the latter rain.     But now, the children of base men spring up     And push away my feet, and make my name     A bye-word and a mockery, which was erst     Set to the harp in song.                             Because my wealth     God hath resumed, they who ne'er dared to claim     Equality with even the lowest ones     Who watch'd my flock, they whom my menials scorned,     Dwellers in hovels, feeding like the brutes     On roots and bushes of the wilderness,     Despise me, and in mean derision cast     Marks of abhorrence at the fallen chief     Whom erst they fear'd.                             Unpitied I endure     Sickness and pain that ope the narrow house     Where all the living go. My soul dissolves     And flows away as water--like the owl     In lone, forgotten cavern I complain,     For all my instruments of music yield     But mournful sounds, and from my organ comes     A sob of weeping.                             I appeal to Him     Who sees my ways, and all my steps doth count,     If I have walk'd with vanity or worn     The veil of falsehood, or despised to obey     The law of duty; if I basely prowl'd     With evil purpose round my neighbor's door,     Or scorn'd my humblest menial's cause to right     When he contended with me, and complain'd,     Framed as he was of the same clay with me     By the same Hand Divine; or shunn'd to share     Even my last morsel with the hungry poor,     Or shield the uncovered suppliant with the fleece     Of my own cherish'd flock.                             If ere I made     Fine gold my confidence, or lifted up     My heart in pride, because my wealth was great,     Or when I saw the glorious King of Day     Gladdening all nations, and the queenly Moon     Walking in brightness, was enticed to pay     A secret homage,--'twere idolatry     Unpardonably great.                             If I rejoiced     In the affliction of mine enemy     Or for his hatred breathed a vengeful vow     When trouble came upon him,--if I closed     The inhospitable door against the foot     Of stranger, or of traveller,--or withheld     Full nutriment from any who abode     Within my tabernacle,--or refused     Due justice even to my own furrow'd field,     Then let my harvest unto thistles turn,     And rootless weeds o'ertop the beardless grain."                     *     *     *     *     *     Then ceased the Man of Uz, like one o'erspent,     Feeling the fallacy of argument     With auditors like these, his thoughts withdrew     Into the shroud of silence, and he spake     No more unto them, standing fix'd and mute,     Like statued marble.                             Then, as none replied,     A youthful stranger rose, and while he stretch'd     His hand in act to speak, and heavenward raised     His clear, unshrinking brow, he worthy seem'd     To hold the balance of that high debate.     Still, an indignant warmth, with energy     Of fervid eloquence his lips inspired.     --"I said that multitude of days should bring     Wisdom to man, and so gave earnest heed     To every argument. And lo! not one     Of all your speeches have convicted Job,     Or proved your theory that woes like his     Denote a secret guilt.                             I listened still     With that respect which youth doth owe to age,     And till ye ceased to speak, refrain'd to show     Mine own opinion. But there is a breath     From the Almighty, that gives life to thought,     And in my soul imprison'd utterance burns     Like torturing flame. So, will I give it vent     Though I am young in years, and ye are old,     And should be wise. I will not shun to uphold     The righteous cause, nor will I gloze the wrong     With flattering titles, lest the kindling wrath     Of an offended Maker, sweep me hence.     Hearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my words     For they are words of truth.                             Thou hast assumed     More perfect innocence than appertains     To erring man, and eager to refute     False accusation hast contemn'd the course     Of the All-Merciful.                             Why shouldst thou strive     With Him whose might of wisdom ne'er unveils     Its mysteries to man? Yet doth He deign     Such hints and precepts as the docile heart     May comprehend. Sometimes in vision'd sleep,     His Spirit hovereth o'er the plastic mind     Sealing instruction. Or a different voice     Its sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops,     Strong pain amid the multitude of bones     Doth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat.     His fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pit     He hourly hastens. Holy Sympathy     May aid to uphold him in its blessed arms     Kindly interpreting the Will Divine,     With angel tenderness.                             But if the God     Whose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayer     Baptized with dropping tears--perceives the cry     Of humbled self-abasing penitence,     He casts away the scourge--the end is gained.     Fresh as a child's, the wither'd flesh returns,     And life, and health, and joy, are his once more.     With discipline like this, He often tries     The creatures He hath made, to crush the seeds     Of pride, and teach that lowliness of soul     Befitting them, and pleasing in His sight.                     *     *     *     *     *     Oh Man of Uz--if thou hast aught to add     Unto thy argument--I pray thee, speak!     Fain would I justify thee.                             Is it well     To combat Him who hath the right to reign?     Or even to those who fill an earthly throne     And wear a princely diadem, to say,     Ye are unjust?                             But how much less to Him     The fountain of all power, who heedeth not     Earth's vain distinctions, nor regards the rich     More than the poor, for all alike are dust     And ashes in His sight.                             Is it not meet     For those who bear His discipline, to say     I bow submissive to the chastening Hand     That smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me that     Which through my blindness I have failed to see,     For I have sinn'd, but will offend no more.     Say, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to hold     Thyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind?     If thou art righteous what giv'st thou to Him     Who sits above the heavens? Can He receive     Favor from mortals?                             Open not thy mouth     To multiply vain words, but rather bow     Unto the teaching of His works that spread     So silently around. His snows descend     And make the green Earth hoary. Chains of frost     Straighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rains     Refresh her summer thirst, or rending clouds     Roll in wild deluge o'er her. Roaming beasts     Cower in their dens affrighted, while she quakes     Convuls'd with inward agony, or reels     Dizzied with flashing fires.                             Again she smiles     In her recovered beauty, at His will,     Maker of all things. So, He rules the world,     With wrath commingling mercy. Who may hope     With finite mind to understand His ways,     So excellent in power, in wisdom deep,     In justice terrible, respecting none     Who pride themselves in fancied wisdom."                             Hark!     On the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks,     Tornadoes shake the desert, thunders roll     And from the lightning's startled shrine, _a voice_!     The voice of the Eternal.                             "Who is this     That darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words?     Gird up thy loins and answer.                             Where wert thou     When the foundations of the earth were laid?     Who stretch'd the line, and fix'd the corner-stone,     When the bright morning-stars together sang     And all the hosts that circle round the Throne     Shouted for joy?                             Whose hand controll'd the sea     When it brake forth to whelm the new-fram'd world?     Who made dark night its cradle and the cloud     Its swaddling-band? commanding                             "Hitherto     Come, but no further. At this line of sand     Stay thy proud waves."                             Hast thou call'd forth the morn     From the empurpled chambers of the east,     Or bade the trembling day-spring know its place?     Have Orion's depths been open'd to thy view?     And hast thou trod his secret floor? or seen     The gates of Death's dark shade?                             Where doth light dwell?     And ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign'd     Before Creation? Dost thou know the path     Unto their house, because thou then wert born?     And is the number of thy days so great?     Show me the treasure-house of snows. Unlock     The mighty magazines of hail, that wait     The war of elements.                             Who hath decreed     A water-course for embryo fountain springs?     Mark'd out the lightning's path and bade the rain     O'erlook not in its ministries the waste     And desolate plain, but wake the tender herb     To cheer the bosom of the wilderness.     Tell me the father of the drops of dew,     The curdling ice, and hoary frost that seal     The waters like a stone, and change the deep     To adamant.                             Bind if thou canst, the breath     And balmy influence of the Pleiades.     Bring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guide     Arcturus, with his sons.                             Canst thou annul     The fix'd decree that in their spheres detain     The constellations? Will the lightnings go     Forth on thine errands, and report to thee     As loyal vassals?                             Who in dying clay     Infused the immortal principle of mind,     And made them fellow-workers?                             If thou canst     Number the flying clouds, and gather back     Their falling showers, when parch'd and cleaving earth     Implores their charity. Wilt hunt the prey     With the stern forest-king? or dare invade     The darkened lair where his young lions couch     Ravenous with hunger?                             Who the ravens feeds     When from the parent's nest hurl'd out, they cry     And all forsaken, ask their meat from God?     Know'st thou the time when the wild goats endure     The mother-sorrow? how their offspring grow     Healthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall'd?     Who made the wild ass like the desert free,     Scorning the rein, and from the city's bound     Turning triumphant to the wilderness?     Lead to thy crib the unicorn, and bind     His unbow'd sinews to the furrowing plough,     And trust him if thou canst to bring thy seed     Home to the garner.                             Who the radiant plumes     Gave to the peacock? or the winged speed     That bears the headlong ostrich far beyond     The baffled steed and rider? not withheld     By the instinctive tenderness that chains     The brooding bird, she scatters on the sands     Her unborn hopes, regardless though the foot     May trampling crush them.                             Hast thou given the Horse     His glorious strength, and clothed his arching neck     With thunder? At the armed host he mocks,--     The rattling quiver, and the glittering spear.     Prancing and proud, he swalloweth the ground     With rage, and passionate desire to rush     Into the battle. At the trumpet's sound,     And shouting of the captains, he exults,     Drawing the stormy terror with delight     Into his fearless spirit.                             Doth the Hawk     In her migrations counsel ask of Thee?     Mounts the swift Eagle up at thy command?     Making her nest among the star-girt cliffs,     And thence undazzled by the vertic sun     Scanning the molehills of the earth, or motes     That o'er her bosom move.                             Say,--wilt thou teach     Creative Wisdom? or contend with Him     The Almighty,--ordering all things at His will?"                     *     *     *     *     *     Then there was silence, till the chastened One     Murmured as from the dust,                             "Lo, I am vile!     What shall I answer thee?--I lay my hand     Upon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak,     But would be silent now, forevermore."     --Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind's wing,     Jehovah's voice demanded,--                             "Wilt thou dare     To disannul my judgments? and above     Unerring wisdom, and unbounded power     Exalt thine own?                             Hast thou an arm like mine?     Array thyself in majesty, and look     On all the proud in heart, and bring them low,--     Yea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroad     The arrows of thine anger, and abase     The arrogant, and send the wicked down     To his own place, sealing his face like stone     Deep in the dust; for then will I confess     Thy might, and that thine own right hand hath power     To save thyself.                             Hast seen my Behemoth,     Who on the grassy mountains finds his food?     And 'neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disports     His monstrous bulk?                             His bones like brazen bars,     His iron sinews cased in fearful strength     Resist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirst     The rivers dwindle, and he thinks to draw     The depths of Jordan dry.                             Wilt cast thy hook     And take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yoke     Upon him, as a vassal? Will he cringe     Unto thy maidens?                             See the barbed spear     The dart and the habergeon, are his scorn.     Sling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil'd,     And from the plaited armor of his scales     The glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines,     Who is so daring as to rouse him up,     With his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame?     Or to the cavern of his gaping jaws     Thick set with teeth, draw near?                             The Hand alone     That made him can subdue his baleful might."                     *     *     *     *     *     Jehovah ceas'd,--for the Omniscient Eye     That scans the inmost thought of man, discern'd     Its work completed in that lowliness     Of deep humility which fits the soul     For heavenly intercourse, and renovates     The blessed image of obedient love     That Eden forfeited.                             Out of the depths     Of true contrition sigh'd a trembling tone     In utter abnegation,                             "I repent!     In dust and ashes. I abhor myself."     --Thus the returning prodigal who cries     Unclothed and empty, "Father! I have sinn'd,     And am not worthy to be called thy son,"     Finds full forgiveness, and a free embrace,     While the best robe his shrinking form enfolds.     But with this self-abasement toward his God     Job mingled tenderest regard for man.     No longer with indignant warmth he strove     Against his false accusers, or retained     Rankling remembrance of the enmity     That vexed his wounded soul                             With earnest prayers     And offerings, he implored offended Heaven     To grant forgiveness to those erring friends,     Paying with love the alienated course     Of their misguided minds.                             Heaven heard his voice,     And with that intercession sweet, return'd     The sunbeams of his lost prosperity.     Back came his buried joys. They had no power     To harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide     Of wealth swept o'er him. On his many hills     Gathered the herds, and o'er his pastures green     Sported the playful lambs. The tuneful voice     Of children fill'd his desolate home with joy,     And round his household board their beauty gleam'd,     Making his spirit glad.                             So full of days,     While twice our span of threescore years and ten,     Mark'd out its silvery chronicle of moons     Still to his knee his children's children climb'd     To hear the wisdom he had learned of God     Through the strong teaching both of joy and woe.                     *     *     *     *     *     Nor had this sublunary scene alone,     Witness'd his trial. Doubt ye not that forms     To earth invisible were hovering near     With the sublime solicitude of Heaven.     For he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting pride     Of impious revolt, had dared to say     Unto the King of Kings,                             "Stretch forth thy hand     And take away all that he hath, and Job     Will curse Thee to Thy face."                             Methinks we hear     An echo of angelic harmony     From that blest choir who struck their harps with joy     That from the Tempter's ordeal he had risen     An unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour'd     Their gratulations that the born of clay     Tho' by that mystery bow'd which ever veils     The inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One,     Might with the chieftain of the Rebel Host     Cope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way.