XLVIII.-ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WOR

SHIPER.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

1. And it came to pass after these things, that Abraham sat in the door of his tent about the going down of the sun. 2. And behold, a man, bowed with age, came from the way of the wilderness, leaning on a staff.

3. And Abraham arose and met him, and said unto him, "Turn in, I pray thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night, and thou shalt arise early on the morrow, and go on thy way."

4. But the man said, "Nay, for I will abide under this tree."

5. And Abraham pressed him greatly; so he turned, and they went into the tent, and Abraham baked unleavened bread, and they did eat.

6. And when Abraham saw that the man blessed not God, he said unto him, "Wherefore dost thou not worship the most high God, Creator of heaven and earth?"

7. And the man answered and said, "I do not worship the God thou speakest of, neither do I call upon his name; for I have made to myself a god, which abideth alway in mine house, and provideth me with all things."

8. And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and he arose and fell upon him, and drove him forth with blows into the wilderness.

9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, "Abraham, where is the stranger?"

10. And Abraham answered and said, "Lord, he would not worship thee, neither would he call upon thy name; therefore have I driven him out from before my face into the wilderness."

11. And God said, "Have I borne with him these hundred ninety and eight years, and nourished him, and clothed him, notwithstanding his rebellion against me; and couldst not thou, that art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night?"

12. And Abraham said, "Let not the anger of the Lord

wax hot against his servant; lo, I have sinned; lo, I have sinned; forgive me, I pray thee."

13. And Abraham arose, and went forth into the wilderness, and sought diligently for the man, and found him, and returned with him to the tent; and when he had entreated him kindly, he sent him away on the morrow with gifts.

14. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, “ For this thy sin shall thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a strange land;

15. "But for thy repentance will I deliver them; and they shall come forth with power, and with gladness of heart, and with much substance."

XLIX.-ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WOR

SHIPER.

LEIGH HUNT.

SCENE.-The inside of a tent, in which the patriarch Abraham, and a Persian traveler, a Fire-worshiper, are sitting awhile after supper.

Fire-worshiper. [Aside.] What have I said or done, that by degrees

Mine host hath changed his gracious countenance,

Until he stareth on me, as in wrath!

Have I twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise love?
Or sit I thus too long, and he himself

Would fain be sleeping? I will speak to that.
(Aloud.) Impute it, O my great and gracious lord,
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly,

If mine old eyelids droop against their will,
And I become as one that hath no sense

Ev'n to the milk and honey of thy words.—

With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help,

My limbs would creep to bed.

Abraham. [Angrily quitting his seat.] In this tent, never.
Thou art a thankless and an impious man.
Fire-worshiper. [Rising in astonishment.] A thankless and
an impious man! Oh, sir,

My thanks have all but worshiped thee.

Abraham.

And whom

Forgotten? Like the fawning dog I feed.
From the foot-washing to the meal, and now
To this thy crammed and dog-like wish for bed,
I've noted thee; and never hast thou breathed
One syllable of prayer or praise or thanks,

To the great God who made and feedeth all.
Fire-worshiper. Oh, sir, the God I worship is the Fire,
The god of gods; and seeing him not here,
In any symbol, or on any shrine,

Abraham.

I waited till he blessed mine eyes at morn,
Sitting in heaven.

Oh, foul idolater!

And darest thou still to breathe in Abraham's

tent?

Forth with thee, wretch: for he that made thy god,
And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven,
The invisible and only dreadful God,

Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm,
And try thee in thy foolish god, the fire,
Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of.
Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds,
And get thee forth, and wait him.

Fire-worshiper.

[A violent storm is heard rising.]

What! unhoused!

And on a night like this! me, poor old

A hundred years of age!

Abraham. [Urging him away.]

man,

Not reverencing

The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence.

Fire-worshiper. Thou hadst a father!-think of his gray

hairs,

Houseless, and cuffed by such a storm as this.
Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not him.
Fire-worshiper. I have a wife, as aged as myself,

And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,
No, not a day; she is so used to me ;
So propped up by her other feeble self.
I pray thee, strike us not both down.

Abraham. [Still urging him.]

God made

Husband and wife, and must be owned of them,
Else he must needs disown them.

Fire-worshiper.

Abraham.

We have children

One of them, sir, a daughter, who next week
Will all day long be going in and out,

Upon the watch for me. Spare, O spare her!
She's a good creature, and not strong.

Mine ears

Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy,
And to the coming of the Lord and God,
Who will this night condemn thee.

[Abraham pushes him out; and remains alone speaking.]

The Voice.

For if ever

God came at night-time upon the world,

'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds,
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,
Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,

Beneath the touching of the foot of God.

That was God's speaking in the heavens,—that last,

An inward utterance coming by itself.

What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolater, whom thou abhorrest,
Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.

[A dead silence; and then a still small voice.] Abraham!

Abraham. Where art thou, Lord? and who is it that speaks So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn

And dare to face thy presence?

The Voice. Who but He

Abraham.
The Voice.

Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn?
I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham ;

I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake;
But I am in the still small voice.

Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in?
Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth.
Then didst thou what God himself forbore.
Have I, although he did deny me, borne
With his injuriousness these hundred years,

And couldst thou not endure him one sole night,
And such a night as this?

Abraham. Lord! I have sinned,

The Voice.

And will go forth, and if he be not dead,
Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies
Both to himself and me.

Behold and learn.

[The voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of
the tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire-worshiper,
who is calmly sleeping, with his head on the back of
a house-lamb.]

Abraham. O loving God! the lamb itself's his pillow,
And on his forehead is a balmy dew,

And in his sleep he smileth. I, mean time,
Poor and proud fool, with my presumptuous hands,
Not God's, was dealing judgments on his head,
Which God himself had cradled !—Oh, methinks
There's more in this than prophet yet hath known,
And Faith, some day, will all in love be shown.

L.-THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

1. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villagers with strange alarms.

2. Ah, what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the Death-Angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

3. I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.