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.'