The Poems of Henry Van Dyke eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 381 pages of information about The Poems of Henry Van Dyke.

RUAHMAH:  [Turning aside.]
    I am entangled in my speech,—­no light,—­
    How shall I tell him?  He will not believe. 
    O my dear lord, thine enemies are they
    Of thine own house.  I pray thee to beware,—­
    Beware,—­of Rimmon!

                        Child, thy words are wild: 
    Thy troubles have bewildered all thy brain. 
    Go, now, and fret no more; but sleep, and dream
    Of Israel!  For thou shalt see thy home
    Among the hills again.

                            Master, good-night. 
    And may thy slumber be as sweet and deep
    As if thou camped at snowy Hermon’s foot,
    Amid the music of his waterfalls. 
    There friendly oak-trees bend their boughs above
    The weary head, pillowed on earth’s kind breast,
    And unpolluted breezes lightly breathe
    A song of sleep among the murmuring leaves. 
    There the big stars draw nearer, and the sun
    Looks forth serene, undimmed by city’s mirk
    Or smoke of idol-temples, to behold
    The waking wonder of the wide-spread world. 
    There life renews itself with every morn
    In purest joy of living.  May the Lord
    Deliver thee, dear master, from the nets
    Laid for thy feet, and lead thee out along
    The open path, beneath the open sky!

        [Exit RUAHMAH:  NAAMAN stands looking after her.]


TIME:  The following morning

The audience-hall in BENHADAD’S palace.  The sides of the hall are lined with lofty columns:  the back opens toward the city, with descending steps:  the House of Rimmon with its high tower is seen in the background.  The throne is at the right in front:  opposite is the royal door of entrance, guarded by four tall sentinels. 
 Enter at the rear between the columns, RAKHAZ, SABALLIDIN, HAZAEL,

IZDUBHAR:  [An excited old man.]
    The city is all in a turmoil.  It boils like a pot of lentils. 
      The people are foaming and bubbling round and round like
      beans in the pottage.

HAZAEL:  [A lean, crafty man.]
    Fear is a hot fire.

RAKHAZ:  [A fat, pompous man.]
    Well may they fear, for the Assyrians are not three days
      distant.  They are blazing along like a waterspout to
      chop Damascus down like a pitcher of spilt milk.

SABALLIDIN:  [Young and frank.]
    Cannot Naaman drive them back?

RAKHAZ:  [Puffing and blowing.]
    Ho!  Naaman?  Where have you been living?  Naaman is a broken
      reed whose claws have been cut.  Build no hopes on that
      foundation, for it will run away and leave you all adrift
      in the conflagration.

    He clatters like a windmill.  What would he say, Hazael?

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The Poems of Henry Van Dyke from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.