6
To blast the peaceful race he deemed his foe,
And call the aid of Hell to work them woe;
While king and people stand around to hear
Those awful words—those thrilling tones of fear!
And call the aid of Hell to work them woe;
While king and people stand around to hear
Those awful words—those thrilling tones of fear!
And do they think their vain and childish wrath
Can cast one darkening cloud across the path
Of those whom God himself vouchsafes to bless,
And lead to joy and peace and happiness?
Oh! when will man at last awake to see
His true condition here, and bend the knee
To Him whose hand directs this earth below,
And pours for all their cup of joy or woe?
That impious rite is o'er, the sacred fires
Are sinking fast, and Balaam now retires
To see if God perchance will meet him there,
And deign to grant his dread unhallowed prayer.
But Balak rests beside the altars still,
And waits in silent awe to hear His will
Yet o'er that changing cheek and darkening brow
The clouds that pass each varied feeling show,—
The mingled hope and fear, and, more than all,
The wild desire to see a nation fall
Beneath the awful curse's withering sway,
And like an evening meteor pass away!
But, to! the prophet comes; his eagle eye
Is lit with lustre beaming from on high.
And o'er his features, pale and sad till now,
A more than earthly lustre seems to glow.
The Lord hath met him! Balak, haste, draw nigh
And hear the words of Him who cannot lie.
O'er Israel's tents the prophet gazes now,
Till bursting forth these heaven-taught accents flow:—
Can cast one darkening cloud across the path
Of those whom God himself vouchsafes to bless,
And lead to joy and peace and happiness?
Oh! when will man at last awake to see
His true condition here, and bend the knee
To Him whose hand directs this earth below,
And pours for all their cup of joy or woe?
That impious rite is o'er, the sacred fires
Are sinking fast, and Balaam now retires
To see if God perchance will meet him there,
And deign to grant his dread unhallowed prayer.
But Balak rests beside the altars still,
And waits in silent awe to hear His will
Yet o'er that changing cheek and darkening brow
The clouds that pass each varied feeling show,—
The mingled hope and fear, and, more than all,
The wild desire to see a nation fall
Beneath the awful curse's withering sway,
And like an evening meteor pass away!
But, to! the prophet comes; his eagle eye
Is lit with lustre beaming from on high.
And o'er his features, pale and sad till now,
A more than earthly lustre seems to glow.
The Lord hath met him! Balak, haste, draw nigh
And hear the words of Him who cannot lie.
O'er Israel's tents the prophet gazes now,
Till bursting forth these heaven-taught accents flow:—
