Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey, Come down, and take a lowlier place; Come down, to fill it now with grace; Come down you must perforce some day: 20 For years cannot be kept at bay, And fading years will make you old; Then in their turn will men seem cold, When you yourself are nipped and grey. BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON B.C. 570 (_Macmillan's Magazine_, October 1866.) Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone; The curse is come upon me, and I waste In penal torment powerless to atone. The curse is come on me, which makes no haste And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud Hard man and him the sinner double-faced. Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed Within me, as my body in this mire; My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed. As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire, 10 As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal, So we the elect ones perish in His ire. Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel With famished faces toward Jerusalem: His heart is shut against us not to feel, His ears against our cry He shutteth them, His hand He shorteneth that He will not save, His law is loud against us to condemn: And we, as unclean bodies in the grave Inheriting corruption and the dark, 20 Are outcast from His presence which we crave. Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark, Our Glory hath departed from His rest, Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest. Our very Father hath forsaken us, Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressed Unto our foes are even marvellous, A hissing and a butt for pointing hands, Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; 30 For He hath scattered us in alien lands, Our priests, our princes, our anointed king, And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands. Here while I sit my painful heart takes wing Home to the home-land I must see no more, Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine, There where my parents dwelt at ease before: Now strangers press the olives that are mine, 40 Reap all the corners of my harvest-field, And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine; To them my trees, to them my garden yield Their sweets and spices and their tender green, O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield. Yet these are they whose fathers had not been Housed with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smote And with their blood washed their pollutions clean, Purging the land which spewed them from its throat; Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey, 50 Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat. Now they in turn have led our own away; Our daughters and our sisters and our wives Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day, To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives,