Who, knowing good from evil, choose not good, Or suffer evil, howsoever fair, To make the good less lovely in their eyes! Full well thou knowest that thy heart is set More on the gold of Balak than God’s will. God doth not mock. ’Tis thou that mockest Him, Coming into His presence, full of lust, And seeking for a sign. If thou wert pure No sign were needed. Being as thou art, Wert thou to offer up the land’s whole wealth, Oxen and rams, and corn, and wine, and oil, And all the first-born of thy kings, no sign Would purge thee of those sordid dreams that drag Thy soul from God to hell! It is not yet too late, Perhaps, and but perhaps! O, Balaam, rouse thee! Thou art, e’en yet, God’s prophet! He has shewn His will to none more clearly than to thee. What is it He requireth at thy hands? Be true and honest, pure and merciful, Having thy heart aflame with faith and love, Still walking humbly, as though prone to fall-- Guarding thine eyes from covetous wanderings, Deeming God’s gifts more beautiful than man’s-- And he will keep thee right in all thy ways. Oh! what is Balak’s honour, Balak’s gold, To Balaam, if the Highest be his friend, Who owns the wealth and beauty of the world? Balaam, if these men call thee, do not go.” And Balaam bowed himself unto the ground, And lay upon his face in misery; And in his heart an awful battle raged, Where evil fought with good. Longtime he lay, As one entranced, all motionless, but full, Through every nerve, of wakeful, painful life. And then he rose, as from his grave, so pale And wild his visage; and he looked again, Along the waste, towards the western sky, But saw no sign, save that the stars grew dim, And some were gone; and, even as he looked, He seemed to hear from all the waking earth, Borne through the gloaming on the mountain wind, The words he loved and longed for and yet loathed, “Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.” And once again a shudder shook his frame; And once again he bowed him to the earth, And lay upon his face in misery, Until, from weariness, he fell asleep. And as he slept, he dreamed he was a child And heard sweet music, soft as is the breeze That steals through corn-fields on a summer’s day, And makes the flowers kiss sweetly, and the leaves On every tree grow tremulous for joy.