James Russell Lowell

A Parable

Worn and footsore was the Prophet,
 When he gained the holy hill;
‘God has left the earth,’ he murmured,
‘Here his presence lingers still.
 
’God of all the olden prophets,
 Wilt thou speak with men no more?
Have I not as truly served thee
 As thy chosen ones of yore?
 
‘Hear me, guider of my fathers,
 Lo! a humble heart is mine;
By thy mercy I beseech thee
 Grant thy servant but a sign!’
 
Bowing then his head, he listened
 For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,
 Not a murmur stirred the air:
 
But the tuft of moss before him
 Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock’s hard bosom,
 Sprang a tender violet.
 
‘God! I thank thee,’ said the Prophet;
 ‘Hard of heart and blind was I,
Looking to the holy mountain
 For the gift of prophecy.
 
’Still thou speakest with thy children
 Freely as in eld sublime;
Humbleness, and love, and patience,
 Still give empire over time.
 
‘Had I trusted in my nature,
 And had faith in lowly things,
Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me.
 And set free my spirit’s wings.
 
‘But I looked for signs and wonders,
 That o’er men should give me sway;
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
 I was even less than clay.
 
‘Ere I entered on my journey,
 As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,
 The beloved of my heart;
 
’In her hand she held a flower,
 Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
 She had plucked and brought to me.’
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