Project Gutenberg's Man of Uz, and Other Poems, by Lydia Howard Sigourney This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Man of Uz, and Other Poems Author: Lydia Howard Sigourney Release Date: February 2, 2007 [EBook #20504] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OF UZ, AND OTHER POEMS *** Produced by Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) THE MAN OF UZ, AND OTHER POEMS. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. HARTFORD WILLIAMS, WILEY & WATERMAN. 1862. Entered according to Act or Congress, in the Year 1862, by MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. PREFACE. The arrogance of attempting a parody on the most ancient and sublime poem in the Inspired Volume, is not mine. The great pleasure enjoyed in its perusal from early years, had occasionally prompted metrical imitations of isolated passages. These fragmentary effusions, recently woven together, are here presented, with the hope that as wandering streams are traced to their original fountain, some heart may thus be led to the history of the stricken and sustained Patriarch, with more studious research, purer delight, or a deeper spirit of devotion. L. H. S. Hartford, Conn., November 5th, 1862. CONTENTS. THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND, IN MEMORIAM. 1859. 1860. Preface, The Man of Uz, Page. 3 9 Canto First, Canto Second, Canto Third, 59 91 109 Rev. Dr. T. M. Cooley, Madam Olivia Phelps, Martha Agnes Bonner, Madam Whiting, Denison Olmsted, LL.D. Herbert Foss, Mrs. Charles N. Cadwallader, Rev. Dr. James W. Alexander, Mrs. Joseph Morgan, Alice Beckwith, Mary Shipman Deming, 147 149 151 153 155 157 159 161 163 165 167 Rev. Dr. F. W. Hatch, Mrs. Payne, Mrs. Mary Mildenstein Robertson, Madam Williams, Mr. Samuel Ogden, Mr. George Beach, Miss Margaret C. Brown, Miss Frances Wyman Tracy, Deacon Normand Smith, Mrs. Helen Tyler Beach, Mrs. Elizabeth Harris, Miss Anna M. Seymour, Caleb Hazen Talcott, 169 171 173 175 177 179 181 183 185 187 189 191 193 1861. 1862. 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 Miss Jane Penelope Whiting, Miss Anna Freeman, Madam Pond, Annie Seymour Robinson, Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock, Wentworth Alexander, Mrs. Harvey Seymour, Mrs. Frederick Tyler, Miss Laura Kingsbury, Govenor and Mrs. Trumbull, Mrs. Emily Ellsworth, Rev. Dr. Stephen Jewitt, Miss Delia Woodruff Godding, Miss Sara K. Taylor, Mr. John Warburton, Rev. Henry Albertson Post, Miss Caroline L. Griffin, Mr. Normand Burr, Hon. Thomas S. Williams, Col. H. L. Miller, 195 197 199 201 203 206 208 211 213 214 218 220 222 224 226 228 230 232 234 237 Col. Samuel Colt, Madam Hannah Lathrop, Henrietta Selden Colt, The Little Brothers, Mr. D. F. Robinson, Mr. Samuel Tudor, Henry Howard Comstock, Rev. Dr. David Smith, Miss Emily B. Parish, Harriet Allen Ely, Miss Catharine Ball, Mrs. Morris Collins, Mrs. Margaret Walbridge, The Brothers Buell, Mr. Phillip Ripley, Richard Ely Collins, Miss Elizabeth Brinley, Mr. John A. Taintor, 239 242 244 247 249 251 254 256 258 260 261 263 265 267 269 271 273 275 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