ISRAEL.

WHEN by Jabbok the patriarch waited
To learn on the morrow his doom,
And his dubious spirit debated
In darkness and silence and gloom,
There descended a Being with whom
He wrestled in agony sore,

With striving of heart and of brawn,
And not for an instant forbore

Till the east gave a threat of the dawn; And then, the Awful One blessed him, To his lips and his spirit there came, Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him,

The cry that through questioning ages Has been wrung from the hinds and the sages,

"Tell me, pray Thee, Thy name!"
Most fatal, most futile, of questions!
Wherever the heart of man beats,
In the spirit's most sacred retreats,
It comes with its sombre suggestions,
Unanswered forever and aye.
The blessing may come and may stay,
For the wrestler's heroic endeavor;
But the question, unheeded forever,
Dies out in the broadening day.

In the ages before our traditions,
By the altars of dark superstitions,
The imperious question has come;
When the death-stricken victim lay
sobbing

At the feet of his slayer and priest, And his heart was laid smoking and throbbing

To the sound of the cymbal and drum On the steps of the high Teocallis; When the delicate Greek at his feast Poured forth the red wine from his chalice

With mocking and cynical prayer; When by Nile Egypt worshipping lay, And afar, through the rosy, flushed air The Memnon called out to the day; Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire;

In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades, Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire

Through art's highest miracles higher, This question of questions invades Each heart bowed in worship or shame; In the air where the censers are swinging,

A voice, going up with the singing, Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

No answer came back, not a word,
To the patriarch there by the ford;
No answer has come through the ages
To the poets, the seers, and the sages
Who have sought in the secrets of
science

The name and the nature of God,
Whether cursing in desperate defiance
Or kissing his absolute rod;

But the answer which was and shall be,
"My name! Nay, what is it to thee?"
The search and the question are vain.
By use of the strength that is in you,
By wrestling of soul and of sinew
The blessing of God you may gain.
There are lights in the far-gleaming
Heaven

That never will shine on our eyes;
To mortals it may not be given
To range those inviolate skies.
The mind, whether praying or scorning.
That tempts those dread secrets shall
fail;

But strive through the night till the morning,

And mightily shalt thou prevail. JOHN HAY (1838-1905).

WRESTLING JACOB.

COME, O Thou Traveler unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see! My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee; With Thee all night I mean to stay, And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell Thee who I am,
My misery or sin declare.
Thyself hast called me by my name:

Look on Thy hands, and read it there. But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? Tell me Thy Name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free;
I never will unloose my hold.
Art thou the Man that died for me?
The secret of Thy Love unfold:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go;
Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal Thy new, unutterable Name?

Like rose-blooms rare and sweet: And his soul rose up as a welling brook, His life or death to meet.

And he spake to that unknown enemy there,

"By yon white stars I vow, That be thou devil or angel or man, Thou canst not conquer me now; For I feel new lease of life and strength In this sweat that beads my brow."

They locked once more; the stars, it seemed

Went round in dances dim, Where the great white watchers over each hill,

With the black night, seemed to swim;

But Jacob knew his enemy now,
Could nevermore conquer him.

Yea, still with grip of death they strove,
In iron might, until,

Planet by planet, the great stars dropped
Down over the westward hill:
And Jacob stood like one who stands
In the strength of a mighty will.

Then at that late, last midnight hour,
When the little birds rejoice,
And out of the lands of sleep life looms
With the rustle of day's annoys,
That other spake as one who speaks
With a sad despairing voice,

And cried aloud, "I have met my fate,
Loosen, and let me go;

For I have striven with thee in vain, Till my heart is water and woe." "Nay, nay," cried Jacob, "we strive, we twain,

Till the mists of dawning blow."

Then spake that other, "I hate thee not,
My spirit is spent, alas,

Thou art a very lion of men;
Release, and let me pass;

For thou hast my heart and sinews ground

As ocean grinds his grass."

Then answered Jacob, "Nay, nay, thou liar,

This is the lock of death: For thee or me it must be thus,

74

The spring comes smiling down the vale,
The lilies and the roses bringing;
But Rachel never more shall hail
The flowers that in the world are
springing.

The summer gives his radiant day,
And Jewish dames the dance are
treading;

But Rachel, on her couch of clay, Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding. The autumn's ripening sunbeam shines, And reapers to the field is calling; But Rachel's voice no longer joins

The choral song at twilight's falling. The winter sends his drenching shower, And sweeps his howling blast around her;

But earthly storms possess no power To break the slumber that hath bound her.

WILLIAM KNOX (1789-1825). JACOB AND PHARAOH. PHARAOH upon a gorgeous throne of

state

Was seated; while around him stood submissive

His servants, watchful of his lofty looks.

The Patriarch enters, leaning on the

arm

Of Benjamin. Unmoved by all the glare

Of royalty, he scarcely throws a glance Upon the pageant show; for from his youth

A shepherd's life he led, and view'd each night

The starry host; and still, where'er he went,

He felt himself in presence of the Lord. His eye is bent on Joseph, him pursues. Sudden the king descends; and, bending, kneels

Before the aged man, and supplicates A blessing from his lips! The agèd man Lays on the ground his staff, and stretching forth

His tremulous hand o'er Pharaoh's uncrown'd head,

Prays that the Lord would bless him and his land.

JAMES GRAHAME (1765-1811).

JACOB.

My sons, and ye the children of my

sons,

Jacob your father goes upon his way, His pilgrimage is being accomplished. Come near and hear him ere his words are o'er.

Not as my father's or his father's days, As Isaac's days or Abraham's, have been mine;

Not as the days of those that in the field

Walked at the eventide to meditate, And haply, to the tent returning, found Angels at nightfall waiting at their door.

They communed, Israel wrestled with the Lord.

No, not as Abraham's or as Isaac's days, My sons, have been Jacob your father's days,

Evil and few, attaining not to theirs
In number, and in worth inferior much.
As a man with his friend, walked they
with God,

In His abiding presence they abode,
And all their acts were open to His