Manasseh
Manasseh, lord of Judah, and the sonOf him who, favoured of Jehovah, sawAt midnight, when the skies were flushed with fire,The splendid mystery of the shining air,That flamed above the black Assyrian camps,And breathed upon the evil hosts at rest,And shed swift violent sleep into their eyes;Manasseh, lord of Judah, when he cameTo fortify himself upon his throne,And saw great strength was gathered unto him,Let slip satanic passions he had nursedFor years and years; and lo! the land that HeWho thundered on the Oriental MountGirt round with awful light, had set apartFor Jacob’s seed—the land that Moses strainedOn Nebo’s topmost cone to see, grew blackBeneath the shadow of despotic SinThat stalked on foot-ways dashed with human blood,And mocked high Heaven by audacious fires;And as when Storm, that voice of God, is loudWithin the mountained Syrian wilderness,There flits a wailing through the wilted pines,So in the city of the wicked kingA voice, like Abel’s crying from the ground,Made sorrow of the broken evening winds,And darkness of the fair young morning lights,And silence in the homes of hunted men.
But in a time when grey-winged Autumn fogsShut off the sun from Carmel’s seaward side,And fitful gusts did speak within the treesOf rain beyond the waters, while the priestsIn Hinnom’s echoing valley offered upUnhallowed sacrifices unto godsOf brass and stone, there came a trumpet’s voiceAlong the bald, bleak northern flats; and thenA harnessed horseman, riding furiously,Dashed down the ridge with an exceeding cryOf “Esarhaddon, Esarhaddon! hasteAway, ye elders, lo, the swarthy foeSix leagues from hence hath made the land a fire,And all the dwellers of the hollowed hillsAre flying hitherwards before a flameOf fifty thousand swords!” At this the menOf Baal turned about, set face, and fledTowards the thickets, where the impious king,Ringed round by grey, gaunt wizards with the brandOf Belial on their features, cowered low,And hid himself amongst the tangled thornsAnd shivered in a bitter seaborn wind,And caught the whiteness of a deathly fear.
There where the ash-pale forest-leaves were touchedBy Morning’s shining fingers, and the inland depthsSent out rain-plenished voices west and south,The steel-clad scouts of Esarhaddon cameAnd searched, and found Manasseh whom they boundAnd dragged before the swart Assyrian king;And Esarhaddon, scourge of Heaven, sentTo strange Evil at its chiefest fanes,And so fulfil a dread divine decree,Took Judah’s despot, fettered hand and foot,And cast him bleeding on a dungeon floorHard by where swift Euphrates chafes his brinkAnd gleams from cataract to cataract,And gives the gale a deep midwinter tone.
So fared Manasseh for the sins which broughtPale-featured Desolation to the tentsOf alienated Judah; but one night,When ninety moons of wild unrest had passed,The humbled son of Hezekiah turnedHimself towards the wall, and prayed and wept;And in an awful darkness face to faceWith God, he said—“I know, O Lord of Hosts,That Thou art wise and just and kind, and IAm shapen in iniquity; but byThe years of black captivity, whose daysAnd nights have marked my spirit passing throughFierce furnaces of suffering, and seenIt groping in blind shadows with a hopeTo reach Thy Hand—by these, O Father, theseThat brought the swift, sad silver to my headWhich should have come with Age—which came with Pain,I pray Thee hear these supplications now,And stoop and lift me from my low estate,And lend me this once my dominionship,So I may strive to live the bad Past down,And lead henceforth a white and wholesome life,And be thy contrite servant, Lord, indeed!”
The prayer was not in vain: for while the stormSang high above the dim Chaldean domes—While, in the pines, the spirit of the rainSobbed fitfully, Jehovah’s angel cameAnd made a splendour of the dungeon walls,And smote the bars, and led Manasseh forthAnd caught him up, nor set him down againUntil the turrets of JerusalemSprang white before the flying travellersAgainst the congregated morning hills.
And he, the broken man made whole again,Was faithful to his promise. Every dayThereafter passing, bore upon its wingsSome shining record of his faultless life,Some brightness of a high resolve fulfilled;And in good time, when all the land had rest,He found that he had lived the bad Past down,And gave God praise, and with his fathers slept.
Thus ends the story of Manasseh. IfThis verse should catch the eyes of one whose sinLies heavy on his soul; who finds himselfA shame-faced alien when he walks abroad,A moping shadow when he sits at home;Who has no human friends; who, day by day,Is smitten down by icy level looksFrom that cold Virtue which is mercilessBecause it knoweth not what wrestling withA fierce temptation means; if such a oneShould read my tale of Hezekiah’s son,Let him take heart, and gather up his strength,And step above men’s scorn, and find his wayBy paths of fire, as brave Manasseh did,Up to the white heights of a blameless life;And it will come to pass that in the faceOf grey old enmities, whose partial eyesAre blind to reformation, he will tasteA sweetness in his thoughts, and live his timeArrayed with the efficient armour ofThat noble power which grows of self-respect,And makes a man a pillar in the world.