Sport of the changeful multitude,
Nor calmly heard, nor understood,
Thy song has seemed a trick of art,
Thy warnings but the actor's part.
With bonds, and scorn, and evil will,
The world requites its prophets still.
So was it, when the Holy One
The garments of the flesh put on!
Men followed where the Highest led
For common gifts of daily bread,
And gross of ear, of vision dim,
Owned not the godlike power of him,
Vain as a dreamer's words, to them,
His wail above Jerusalem.
And meaningless the watch he kept
Through which his weak disciples slept.
Yet shrink not thou, whoe'er thou art,
For God's great purpose set apart,
Before whose far-discerning eyes,
The Future, as the Present, lies!
Beyond a narrow-bounded age
Stretches thy prophet heritage,
Through heaven's dim spaces, angel-trod,
Through arches round the throne of God!
Thy audience, worlds!—all Time to be
The witness of the Truth.
