On hearing these sad sounds the prophet burst in tears;
Responsive to those moans, he groaned.--No listening ears!
The dead he then addressed: “O people, chid in vain!
How often ’gainst you to the Lord I’ve wept, with pain!
The Lord me answered: ‘Patience have with their misdeeds;
To them give counsel still; not long will last those needs!’ 305
Remark I made: ‘With such misdeeds will counsel count?
As milk, kind counsel flows from love’s unsullied fount!’
The untold wrongs you’d heaped upon my patient head
Had curdled milk of counsel in my bosom’s stead.
The Lord replied: ‘A grace I’ll now on thee bestow;
I’ll soothe the wounds inflicted by their rancour’s bow.’
With that, God made my heart as tranquil as of yore;
Swept clean away the cobwebs of your paltry score.”
“Again I proffered counsel to you, sage and safe;
In parables soft couched, with words that might not chafe. 310
Once more that milk flowed, mixed with honey, from my lips;
The dulcet tones were tempting, not like stinging whips.
Alas! Within your ears they all to venom turned;
Because, like poisonous plants, your nature goodness spurned.
Why do I weep? You’ve burnt the substance of all grief;
Like bone in throat, ye obstinate, you’ve choked relief!
Ought any to lament when grief is laid in bier?
Man justly tears his hair, his head if broke by spear!”
With that, reproachfully upon himself he turned,
And cried: “Those fellows were not worth the tears they spurned. 315
Recite not wrongfully, O master of address,
The text: ‘How will I grieve[305] o’er crew that none should
bless!’”
Still, in his eyes and heart more briny tears he found,
A pity, really motiveless, in him ’d ta’en ground.
As summer-rain he wept, through feeling ill at ease;
A summer-rain, quite cloudless, from compassion’s seas.
His conscience smote him sore: “Why weepest thou, man of sense?
Are they of tears fit objects,--men of violence?
What motive for thy tears? Say. Grievest thou for their acts?
Mournest thou th’ extinction of their merciless, vile pacts? 320
Or is’t, perchance, their hearts, corrupt, gangrened, thou’dst weep?
On their empoisoned tongues, so adderlike, thou’dst keep?
Those tails and fangs is’t, are the objects of thy grief?
Their scorpion claws and sting that thou regrettest in chief?
Contentiousness, foul mockery, rude violence?
Thank God, instead, who’s checked their boastful insolence!
Their hands were evil; evil were their feet, their eyes;
Their peace, their friendship, as their wrath, were all unwise.
From rule of meek obedience, customs handed down,
They’d swerved;--to follow mere devices of their own. 325
They wished not for a teacher, asses obstinate;
Their own ideas alone they’d stoop to cultivate.
God therefore sent His servants, smoke and fire to wit,