And thus, O Prophet-bard of old,
Hast thou thy tale of wonder told!
The same which earth's unwelcome seers
Have felt in all succeeding years.
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 garment 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 word to them,
His wail above Jerusalem,
And meaningless the watch he kept,
Through which his weak disciples slept.
Then 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's 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 in thee!
Yea, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
Mercy will sit between,
Thron'd in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering,
And heaven, as at some festival,This is a test footnote
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
