THE PROPHET'S REBUKE

In a cedar-ceiled palace, the proud arches rolled, O'erlaid with vermilion, and blazoned with gold, While their graceful supporters in colonnade stood, Like the children of giants, a grand brotherhood: Around them the lily and pomegranate wreath, In delicate tracery, while far beneath The siren-voiced fountains beguile the long day, And the tessalate pavement is gemmed with their spray. The East from her treasury joyeth to bring Her magnificent gifts to a world-renowned king; Her birds, like to meteors, as brilliant and fleet, And her rainbow-hued flowers are laid at his feet, While he, in regality's power and pride, Sits enthroned with the symbol of pomp by his side. The beauty is glorious that beams in his face, His mien is majestic, his movement is grace! Before him a prophet, with hair long and white Falling down o'er a mantle as sable as night, With a glance of stern loftiness, cheek cold and pale, And a gesture of earnestness, thus told his tale. "Two men in this city there dwelleth, my lord— One is blessed in the battle, and blessed by the board: He hath numberless flocks in the field and the fold, And the wealth of his coffers remaineth untold. The other hath naught save one lamb, which he fed Like a child of his household; it ate of his bread, It partook of his portion of food and of rest, It followed his footsteps, it lay on his breast, It lightened his sorrows with innocent art, And e'en, as a daughter, was dear to his heart. A traveler came to the rich man's abode, And he welcomed the guest in the name of his God; Bade him tarry awhile, 'mid the fierce noontide heat, 'Neath the vine-tree's broad shadow, to rest him and eat. Then straightway he hasted, with tenderest care, To spread forth the board and the banquet prepare, While he spared of his own to take youngling or dam But dressed for the stranger his neighbor's ewe lamb. As a breath from the meadow, on wings of the wind, To the sense that had breathed but the perfume of Ind, Seemed this tale of simplicity, told to the heart That had dwelt 'mid the spells of magnificent art. Spake the king, while fierce anger flashed hot from his eye, "Now, as the Lord liveth! this robber shall die! To the victim of wrong let his cattle be told, Till full restitution be rendered fourfould, And cursed be forever, with sword and with brand, The wretch who hath done such foul wrong in our land!" Then with stern condemnation the prophet replied To the monarch, who sat in his purple-clad pride, And his bold voice resounded throughout the broad span Of the arches above them, "Thou, thou art the man! Saith the Lord, I have raised thee from humble estate, To rule o'er a nation most favored and great— I have given thee Judah thy portion to be, And the honor of Israel centres in thee! Thy children, like olive boughs, circle thy board, And the wives of thy master await at thy word, But insatiate still, thou hast entered the dome Of thy neighbor, and stolen the wife from her home; Thou hast slaughtered the husband with treacherous wile, And the vengeance of Heaven rewardeth thy guile! The child of thy love from thy arms shall be torn— And in sackcloth and ashes thy proud head shall mourn— The wives of thy household thy rivals shall be— As thou didst unto others, so be it to thee! And the sword thou hast taken, with murderous art, From thy heaven-doomed lineage ne'er shall depart."