Poems (McDonald)/The Promised Land

by Mary Noel McDonald

THE PROMISED LAND.

"They thought scorn of that pleasant land, and gave no credence unto his word."

    Scorn of that pleasant land!
That place of crystal founts, and palmy shade:
Where the vine tendrils in the soft air played,
    By wandering zephyrs fanned—
Where cooling waters, 'mid the verdant hills,
    Gushed in a thousand rills.

    That land of sunny skies—
Of flowers and fruits luxuriant; where the bee
On tireless wing to every balmy tree
    Seeking its nectar, hies.
That land of corn and wine, that place of rest
    The dews of heaven had blessed!

    Turned they once more to thee,
Oppressing Egypt? asked they yet again
The tyrant's heavy yoke, the galling chain
    Of bitter slavery?
The life of bondsmen, and their nameless graves,
    Meet sepulture for slaves!

    Had they forgotten now
The heavenly manna from the hand of God?
The Rock, from whence the Prophet's smiting rod
    Bade the clear waters flow?
The cloud-wrapt height of Sinai, when His word
    That trembling Prophet heard?

    And did they doubt the hand
That led them safely through the parted sea?
And could they ask a surer guide than He
    Unto the Promised Land?
He, who the fiery pillar reared to bless
    In the dark wilderness?

    Read thou thyself, O man!
In their eventful story—far away
Lies the fair region of eternal day;
    Yet through thy little span,
Thou would'st resign a world with glory rife,
    For the short dream of life.

    Too often thou dost turn,
Like them of old, from Canaan's heavenly shore,
And seek the grovelling joys of earth once more,
    And where her altars burn
Bow down in homage, yielding unto dust
    Thy heart's unholy trust.

    Thou, too, dost turn away
From the bright goal before thee, and pursue
Some fleeting shadow, that must cheat thy view;
    Some idol, which decay
Must stamp with ruin, till the light
    Of heaven eludes thy sight.