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.'