The Idol

Deep in an ancient forest a huge stone idol stood,

Where thronged the dusky worshipers in gratitude for

good;

With humble hearts in rudest strains they praised their

god benign:

Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.

In times of sorest trial their chieftain oft would pray

That there might fall upon his path some guiding heavenly

ray:

"Out of thy wisdom manifold let but one word be mine!"

Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.

When dire disaster smote the tribe or famine's toll was

paid,

The trembling people bowed to earth and sought the

idol's aid,

Or, frenzied, cursed its stony smile and changeless brow

malign:

Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.

Grave priests declared, "Yon sits the god who heeds no

man's behest.

Ye cannot see, ye must not know, yet all is for the bese;

vain are tears, in vain is praise, yet worship the

divine!"

Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.

Behold a wretch despairing fled before the painted foe:

With sobbing breath the victim fell-he could no further

go.

Ah!- Would that dark libation were but of crimson

wine!

Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.

Pass seasons, years, long centuries. The people die

away.

Amid a dwindling forest rots a crumbling image gray,

Now but a formless bulk of rock draped in a living vine.

Serene in measureless repose the idol gives no sign.

Tudor Jenks.