Early Poems (1859-70). Manasseh
Manasseh, lord of Judah, and the son Of him who, favoured of Jehovah, saw At midnight, when the skies were flushed with fire, The splendid mystery of the shining air, That flamed above the black Assyrian camps, And breathed upon the evil hosts at rest, And shed swift violent sleep into their eyes; Manasseh, lord of Judah, when he came To fortify himself upon his throne, And saw great strength was gathered unto him, Let slip satanic passions he had nursed For years and years; and lo! the land that He Who thundered on the Oriental Mount Girt round with awful light, had set apart For Jacob's seed—the land that Moses strained On Nebo's topmost cone to see, grew black Beneath the shadow of despotic Sin That stalked on foot-ways dashed with human blood, And mocked high Heaven by audacious fires; And as when Storm, that voice of God, is loud Within the mountained Syrian wilderness, There flits a wailing through the wilted pines, So in the city of the wicked king A voice, like Abel's crying from the ground, Made sorrow of the broken evening winds, And darkness of the fair young morning lights, And silence in the homes of hunted men. But in a time when grey-winged Autumn fogs Shut off the sun from Carmel's seaward side, And fitful gusts did speak within the trees Of rain beyond the waters, while the priests In Hinnom's echoing valley offered up Unhallowed sacrifices unto gods Of brass and stone, there came a trumpet's voice Along the bald, bleak northern flats; and then A harnessed horseman, riding furiously, Dashed down the ridge with an exceeding cry Of "Esarhaddon, Esarhaddon! haste Away, ye elders, lo, the swarthy foe Six leagues from hence hath made the land a fire, And all the dwellers of the hollowed hills Are flying hitherwards before a flame Of fifty thousand swords!" At this the men Of Baal turned about, set face, and fled Towards the thickets, where the impious king, Ringed round by grey, gaunt wizards with the brand Of Belial on their features, cowered low, And hid himself amongst the tangled thorns And shivered in a bitter seaborn wind, And caught the whiteness of a deathly fear. There where the ash-pale forest-leaves were touched By Morning's shining fingers, and the inland depths Sent out rain-plenished voices west and south, The steel-clad scouts of Esarhaddon came And searched, and found Manasseh whom they bound And dragged before the swart Assyrian king; And Esarhaddon, scourge of Heaven, sent To strange Evil at its chiefest fanes, And so fulfil a dread divine decree, Took Judah's despot, fettered hand and foot, And cast him bleeding on a dungeon floor Hard by where swift Euphrates chafes his brink And gleams from cataract to cataract, And gives the gale a deep midwinter tone. So fared Manasseh for the sins which brought Pale-featured Desolation to the tents Of alienated Judah; but one night, When ninety moons of wild unrest had passed, The humbled son of Hezekiah turned Himself towards the wall, and prayed and wept; And in an awful darkness face to face With God, he said—"I know, O Lord of Hosts, That Thou art wise and just and kind, and I Am shapen in iniquity; but by The years of black captivity, whose days And nights have marked my spirit passing through Fierce furnaces of suffering, and seen It groping in blind shadows with a hope To reach Thy Hand—by these, O Father, these That brought the swift, sad silver to my head Which should have come with Age—which came with Pain, I pray Thee hear these supplications now, And stoop and lift me from my low estate, And lend me this once my dominionship, So I may strive to live the bad Past down, And lead henceforth a white and wholesome life, And be thy contrite servant, Lord, indeed!" The prayer was not in vain: for while the storm Sang high above the dim Chaldean domes— While, in the pines, the spirit of the rain Sobbed fitfully, Jehovah's angel came And made a splendour of the dungeon walls, And smote the bars, and led Manasseh forth And caught him up, nor set him down again Until the turrets of Jerusalem Sprang white before the flying travellers Against the congregated morning hills. And he, the broken man made whole again, Was faithful to his promise. Every day Thereafter passing, bore upon its wings Some shining record of his faultless life, Some brightness of a high resolve fulfilled; And in good time, when all the land had rest, He found that he had lived the bad Past down, And gave God praise, and with his fathers slept. Thus ends the story of Manasseh. If This verse should catch the eyes of one whose sin Lies heavy on his soul; who finds himself A shame-faced alien when he walks abroad, A moping shadow when he sits at home; Who has no human friends; who, day by day, Is smitten down by icy level looks From that cold Virtue which is merciless Because it knoweth not what wrestling with A fierce temptation means; if such a one Should read my tale of Hezekiah's son, Let him take heart, and gather up his strength, And step above men's scorn, and find his way By paths of fire, as brave Manasseh did, Up to the white heights of a blameless life; And it will come to pass that in the face Of grey old enmities, whose partial eyes Are blind to reformation, he will taste A sweetness in his thoughts, and live his time Arrayed with the efficient armour of That noble power which grows of self-respect, And makes a man a pillar in the world.
Henry Kendall’s other poems:
