p. 796 | The by Harold Mayer

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Dec 19, 1916

FromSigns of the Times, December 19, 1916

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The

By Harold Mayer

Harp

on the

Willow

BY HAROLD MAYER

By the willows that bent o'er the edge of the river In Babel of old, a young captive wept sore. The harp that he held in his hand ceased to quiver The songs he had sung on his own native shore— The songs of the saints, that were holy and pure.

The hills and the woodland returned the glad laughter Of maiden and youth as they tripped on the green, To the notes of the flutes that were played—and all nature Herself seemed in tune with the holiday scene. The captive alone was depressed by the scene.

The king of that land had proclaimed an occasion Of revel and feasting throughout this broad realm When he came from his wars with the great Hebrew nation, Whose king, it was said, none on earth could o'erwhelm— Not even the gods could this monarch o'erwhelm.

He sat on his throne by the river. Around him Were gathered the small and the great of the land. As he told of the gold he had carried from Salem, He flourished a temple-marked cup in his hand— The impious king held the cup in his hand.

Having ended his story, he turned from the masses To speak a command to an officer near: "Go fetch us the Hebrew whose singing surpasses The notes of the gods. He shall sing for us here. The songs of his land shall he sing for us here."

The captive is brought to the king's august presence. His arm deftly sweeps o'er the resonant strings Of the harp that he holds in his hand, and the essence Is this of the heaven-born song that he sings— While the revels are hushed by the strain that he sings:

"There's a land that is fairer than springtime; and by it, This earth, with its joys, is a day at its best. There no enemy enters to break up the quiet. The exile of earth finds his rest, sweetest rest. Earth's wandering pilgrim finds rest, sweetest rest."

Then over the sin-hardened face of the ruler, A look of deep longing and tenderness crept, He listened a while to the song of the harper, Then bowed down his head in his hands, and he wept, And many another in sympathy wept.

It is thus runs the story. The song having ended, A soberness settled down over the throng Where before there was revel; and homeward they wended, All sadder, yet wiser, because of the song; And some were made better because of that song.

Ah, how often, amid the confusion of Babel, We go us aside by the river to weep! Allowing our harps in the breeze to swing idle, The songs of our home in our bosoms we keep— The dear songs of heav'n in our bosoms we keep.

If we'd take down the harps we have hung on the willow, And, striking a chord to men's hearts, if we'd sing Of our home of sweet rest, far beyond life's wild billow, Another's might melt, like the heart of the king. Some heart might be blessed by the song that we sing.