Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HYMN BY THE EUPHRATES, by HENRY HART MILMAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HYMN BY THE EUPHRATES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: O thou that wilt not break the bruised reed
Last Line: And, though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored.


O THOU that wilt not break the bruised reed,
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow
Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed,
The only balm of our afflictions thou,
Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, O God!
To kiss with quivering lips -- still humbly kiss thy rod!
We bless thee, Lord, though far from Judah's land,
Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and chains;
Though for stern foes we till the burning sand;
And reap, for others' joy, the summer plains;
We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still,
Even though this last black drop o'erflow our cup of ill!
We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child;
The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep;
The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled,
And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep!
She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark;
The only star that made the strangers' sky less dark!

Our dove is fallen into the spoiler's net;
Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white;
To the bereaved their one soft star is set,
And all above is sullen, cheerless night!
But still we thank thee for our transient bliss --
Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain'd no way but this!
As when our Father to Mount Moriah led
The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy,
Pleased, as he roam'd along with dancing tread,
Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy,
And laugh'd in sport to see the yellow fire
Climb up the turf-built shrine, his destined funeral pyre --
Even thus our joyous child went lightly on;
Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,
Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone
Like some light bird from off the quivering spray;
And back she glanced, and smiled in blamless glee,
The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance to see.
By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent
That bade the sire his murderous task forego:
When to his home the child of Abraham went,
His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow.
Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade,
The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid?

Lord, even through thee to hope were now too bold;
Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair.
'Tis anguish, yet 'tis comfort, faint and cold,
To think how sad we are, how blest we were!
To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet
It were a grief more deep and bitterer to forget!

O Lord our God! why was she e'er our own?
Why is she not our own -- our treasure still?
We could have pass'd our heavy years alone.
Alas! is this to bow us to thy will?
An! even our humblest prayers we make repine,
Nor prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee resign.
Forgive, forgive -- even should our full hearts break,
The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise:
Ah! thou art still too gracious to forsake,
Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise.
Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord;
And, though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored.





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