Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
The Cypress-Tree of Ceylon
By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)T
The sacred cypress-tree about,
And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
Their failing eyes looked out.
Through weary night and lingering day,
Grim as the idols at their side,
And motionless as they.
The song of Ceylon’s birds was sweet;
Unseen of them the island flowers
Bloomed brightly at their feet.
The thunder crashed on rock and hill;
The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed,
Yet there they waited still!
The Moslem’s sunset-call,—the dance
Of Ceylon’s maids,—the passing gleam
Of battle-flag and lance?
Of which the wandering Jogees sing:
Which lends once more to wintry age
The greenness of its spring.
In trustful patience wait to feel
O’er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal;
Whose healing leaves of life are shed,
In answer to the breath of prayer,
Upon the waiting head;
And build the spirit’s broken shrine,
But on the fainting soul to shed
A light and life divine;
And murmur at the long delay?
Impatient of our Father’s time
And his appointed way?
Allure and claim the Christian’s eye,
When on the heathen watcher’s ear
Their powerless murmurs die?
Than prison cell or martyr’s stake,
The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.
Our erring brother in the wrong,—
And in the ear of Pride and Power
Our warning voice is strong.
Than “watch one hour” in humbling prayer.
Life’s “great things,” like the Syrian lord,
Our hearts can do and dare.
From waters which alone can save;
And murmur for Abana’s banks
And Pharpar’s brighter wave.
Didst wake thy weary ones again,
Who slumbered at that fearful hour
Forgetful of thy pain;
And set our sleep-bound spirits free,
Nor leave us slumbering in the watch
Our souls should keep with thee!