Never since our bad earth became one sea, Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, And all but those who knew the living God-- Eight that were left to make a purer world-- When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder wrought Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, Which from the low light of mortality Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest? 'Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baal, And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God.' Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal. The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts!-- No coarse and blockish God of acreage Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to-- Thy God is far diffused in noble groves And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, And heaps of living gold that daily grow, And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for HIM; for thine Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while The deathless ruler of thy dying house Is wounded to the death that cannot die; And tho' thou numberest with the followers Of One who cried 'leave all and follow me.' Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, Thee with His message ringing in thine ears, Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, Count the more base idolater of the two; Crueller: as not passing thro' the fire Bodies, but souls--thy children's--thro' the smoke, The blight of low desires--darkening thine own To thine own likeness; or if one of these, Thy better born unhappily from thee, Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair-- Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one By those who most have cause to sorrow for her-- Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, Fair as the Angel that said 'hail' she seem'd, Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light. For so mine own was brighten'd: where indeed The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway? whose the babe Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, Warm'd at her bosom? The poor child of shame, The common care whom no one cared for, leapt To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, As with the mother he had never known, In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes Had such a star of morning in their blue, That all neglected places of the field Broke into nature's music when they saw her. Low was her voice, but won mysterious way Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one Was all but silence--free of alms her hand-- The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones;