Poems (Louisa Blake)/1st Samuel, 16th
I SAMUEL, 16.
In Bethlehem dwelt a poor and aged man,Poor if the earth's low dross be counted wealth,But passing rich in choicest gifts of Heaven,The high and haughty might look down with scornOn his low dwelling, as it stood retired,And humbly spoke its inmate's lowliness;But little reck'd he of the world's contemptAs he look'd round, with all a father's pride,And all a father's doating tenderness,On the bright band of brothers, who were now,In all their manly gracefulness and strength,A forest of young trees, whose mighty armsStretch'd far and wide, to shield him from the blastsAnd piercing winds of heaven;—beneath whose shadeHis aged head, bared to the scorching sun,And blighting storms for many a circling year,Might now repose in calm security.His soul in its deep thankfulness,Was full to overflowing;—the rich stream, The incense of a pure and grateful heart,Went up to God's high throne acceptably.
'Twas mid-day—and the patriarch Jesse satAs he was wont, within his humble tentAlone and silent, for his sons had goneTo labor in the field, and earn by toilThe pleasures of repose, when they should meetAround their fire at evening's calm cool hour,And join in those kind offices of love,And fond attentions, which the aged need;And which are hallow'd and refined, when madeBy children unto parents.By children unto parents.In these hoursHis soul's full tide pour'd out itself in prayer,For when his boys were near him, his fond eyeFelt it must rest on them; and his warm heartClung closely to them, and the patriarch knewThat adoration and the voice of prayer,When offer'd to the high and holy OneMust be estranged from aught that breathes of earth.
The covering of the tent is slowly raised,And the dim eye of Jesse knew the form,The venerable form that enter'd thereTo be the aged Samuel's; the man,The favor'd prophet of the most high God; He hastes to bid him welcome to his tent,But as his ear receives the import highOf the old prophet's message,From the Eternal One,—to him whose blissEre this had been so perfect, that he felt his heartWas almost bursting, with his height of joy.
The brothers came;—as one by one, they pass'dAnd bow'd in manly dignity to craveThe blessing of their guest, his gentle eyeLinger'd on each, in wonder to beholdSo many noble youths; until at lastThe youngest of the band came smiling in.He left his sheep in haste, and hurried homeTo see the venerable man whose fameHad reach'd far Bethlehem, and now he stoodBefore him, and flung back the glossy locksWhich cluster'd round his high and open brow,Then knelt in reverence to receive the boon,The only boon he ask'd—the good man's blessing.Samuel bless'd him, and he pour'd the oilUpon his head;—that fair young head bow'd lowAs it received the unction, and his heart,His young pure heart, never more deeply feltIts nothingness, than when the prophet's handRaised him up kindly, and he stood erectIn his majestic gracefulness—a King.