Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: There fell no rain on israel. The sad trees Last Line: Turned from vain idols to the living god. Subject(s): Faith; Widows & Widowers; Belief; Creed | ||||||||
THERE fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees, Reft of their coronals, and the crisp vines, And flowers whose dewless bosoms sought the dust, Mourned the long drought. The miserable herds Pined on, and perished 'mid the scorching fields; And near the vanished fountains where they used Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks Laid their parched mouths and died. A holy man, Who saw high visions of unuttered things, Dwelt, in deep-musing solitude, apart Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark winged birds, Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, And night and morning lay their gathered spoils Down at his feet. So, of the brook he drank, Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill Which, singing, used to glide to Jordan's breast. Then warned of God, he rose and went his way Unto the coast of Zidon. Near the gates Of Zarephath he marked a lowly cell, Where a pale, drooping widow in the depth Of desolate and hopeless poverty, Prepared the last scant morsel for her son, That he might eat and die. The man of God. Entering, requested food. Whether that germ Of self-denying fortitude, which stirs Sometimes in woman's soul, and nerves it strong For life's severe and unapplauded tasks, Sprang up at his appeal -- or whether He Who ruled the ravens, wrought within her heart, I cannot say; but to the stranger's hand She gave the bread. Then, round the famished boy Clasping her widowed arms, she strained him close To her wan bosom, while his hollow eye Wondering and wistfully regarded her, With ill-subdued reproach. But blessings fell From the majestic guest, and every morn The empty store which she had wept at eve, Mysteriously replenished, woke the joy That ancient Israel felt, when round their camp The manna lay like dew. Thus many days They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy Looked up with a clear eye, while vigorous health Flushed with unwonted crimson his pure cheek, And bade the fair flesh o'er his wasted limbs Come like a garment. The lone widow mused On her changed lot, yet to Jehovah's name Gave not the praise; but when the silent moon Moved forth all radiant, on her star-girt throne, Uttered a heathen's gratitude, and hailed, In the deep chorus of Zidonian song, "Astarte, queen of Heaven!" But then there came A day of woe. That gentle boy, in whom His mother lived, for whom alone she deemed Time's weary heritage a blessing, died. Wildly the tides of passionate grief broke forth, And on the prophet of the Lord, her lip Called with indignant frenzy. So he came, And from her bosom took the breathless clay And bore it to his chamber. There he knelt In supplication that the dead might live. He rose, and looked upon the child. His cheek Of marble meekly on the pillow lay, While round his polished forehead, the bright curls Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept Beauty and innocence in Death's embrace. It seemed a mournful thing to waken them. Another prayer arose -- and he, whose faith Had power o'er nature's elements, to seal The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning's dart, And soon, from Death escaping, was to soar On car of flame up to the throne of God, Long, long, with laboring breast, and lifted eyes, Solicited in anguish. On the dead Once more the prophet gazed. A rigor seemed To settle on those features, and the hand, In its immovable coldness, told how firm Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave. The awful seer laid down his humbled lip Low in the dust, and his whole being seemed With concentrated agony to pour Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife Of intercession. Who shall dare to set Limits to prayer, since it hath entered Heaven! And won a spirit down to its dense robe Of earth again? Look! look, upon the boy! There was a trembling of the parted lip, A sob -- a shiver -- from the half-sealed eye A flash like morning -- and the soul came back To its frail tenement. The prophet raised The renovated child, and on that breast Which gave the life-stream of its infancy Laid the fair head once more. If ye would know Aught of that wildering trance of ecstasy, Go ask a mother's heart, but question not So poor a thing as language. Yet the soul Of her of Zarephath, in that blest hour, Believed -- and with the kindling glow of faith Turned from vain idols to the living God. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNHOLY SONNET 4 by MARK JARMAN QUIA ABSURDUM by ROBINSON JEFFERS GOING TO THE HORSE FLATS by ROBINSON JEFFERS SONNET TO FORTUNE by LUCY AIKEN JONATHAN EDWARDS IN WESTERN MASSACHUSETTS by ROBERT LOWELL RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION by MINA LOY COLUMBUS [JANUARY, 1487] by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY |
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