Moslem Worship

This is a very pleasant sight,--
The Moslems thronging to the square
That lies before their house of prayer!
Through narrow streets, that lead away,
Some to the plain, some to the bay,
And others towards the castled height
Where frowning walls and portals rent,
Turret and towering battlement,
Tell of Venetian power,--the work
Is now neglected by the Turk,
And flocks of quiet sheep are fed
Within the walls where hosts have bled;
And fig-trees strike their roots between
The stones that arched the magazine.--
Through all these narrow streets, the throng,
Long-robed and turbaned, move along,
And, gathering round a marble fountain
Whose columns, slight and writhed, and old,
A Saracenic roof uphold,
Airy and decked with paint and gold,
They bathe, in water from the mountain,
That, on all sides, from many a spout
Upon the pavement gushes out,
Their feet and arms, their beards and brows;
Then, to the Mosque these men of prayer,--
There are no women with them there,--
Proceed, to offer up their vows.


Within the porch, without the door
That opens to the "Mercy-seat,"
As if the words were whispered round,
"Put off thy shoes from off thy feet,
Thou standest upon holy ground!"
They leave their slippers on the floor,
And enter.--There, beneath a dome
Less lofty than is that at Rome,
Which, o'er a host of saints in stone,
And virgins in mosaic, swells
To cover one who, on a throne,
Round which are clouds of incense curled,
And organs pealed, and trumpets blown,
And tides of vocal music poured,
Sits, to adore, or be adored
By more than half the Christian world,
--And "plenary indulgence" sells,--
Less lofty than is that, St. Peter,
Lifted, they say, above thy bones,
Certainly o'er thy form in bronze,
That near the Baldacchino stands,--
Where, having wiped and kissed its toes,
(Jove's, whilom, as the story goes,)
I've seen men kneel, and clasp their hands,
And lift their eyes, with all their air
Of men engaged in fervent prayer:--
I say not that, while kneeling thus,
Howe'er it may appear to us,
They 're worshipping,--that, till they get up,
That molten image they adore,
Which o'er St. Peter's bones of yore
The piety of popes hath set up:--
Deeming it on this subject meeter,
Since we're not under his dominion,
To let each form his own opinion.


There, as I said, beneath a dome
Less lofty than is that at Rome,
But fitter for a worship true,
Since underneath its ample swell
"No God but God" appears to dwell:--
No "graven image" of a saint,
No martyr in his grated cell,
Tortured by grinning imps of hell;
No demigod in stone or paint;
No virgin with her eyes of blue,
And circlet o'er her auburn hair,
Holding her baby in a chair;
No prophet in a lion's den;
No loose-haired, prostrate Magdalen,
With book and death's-head lying by her,
To tell how quenched is all the fire
That raged, like hell's own flames, within her,
While yet she walked the streets "a sinner";--
No angels, soaring towards the dim
And distant heavens;--no cherubim
With chubby cheeks and little wings,
That smile as St. Cecilia sings;
No gilded pannel lifting high
This picture to Devotion's eye,--
Two young men, standing in a stream
(Doubtless the Jordan's sacred bed),
Of whom the junior seems to bow,
Towards the clear wave, his thoughtful brow,
From which a light appears to beam;
While, with a reverent air, the other,--
You'd take him for an elder brother,--
Clasped "with a leathern girdle" stoops,
And, with a shell, the water scoops,
And pours it on his kinsman's head;--
And, o'er them both, a downward dove,
Emblem of innocence and love,
On silver wings is seen to hover
In a strong gush of light, that breaks
Forth from the mouth of one above her,
Robed in a mantle of sky blue,
Whose hoary locks, and beard down flowing,
Look like a fall of feathery flakes,
When, for the last time, it is snowing,
As spring is coming on anew,
And scarce a breath of wind is blowing.


There worship they:--that total dearth
Of likenesses of things that breathe
In heaven above, or earth beneath,
Or waters underneath the earth,
Is witness for them, that they find
A Spirit in those walls enshrined.
As, underneath the dome of blue
That holds the stars, but drops the dew,
And as, within the horizon's rim,
We see God, and no God but him,
So is it in the temple, where
These Moslems bow themselves in prayer.


But, lo! by mounted horsemen led,
The soldiery comes! rank following rank,
Dressed in the fashion of the Frank,
Except that, on their shaven head,
With tassel blue, the cap of red
(Called, in these climes, the Grecian fez,)
Shows that, in this part of the globe,
Fashion, who has, for ages, kept her
Turban untouched, and fur-fringed robe,
Must vail hers to a stronger sceptre;
For that, howe'er she may protest,
The court and army shall be dressed
Exactly as the Sultan says.


But not to worship moves this band,
As in my own, a Christian land,
The current towards the temple sets:--
There, clattering scabbards charged with steel,
Helmets and plumes and spur-armed heel,
Muskets with bristling bayonets,
Gleam in the ranks of those who call
The Prince of life and peace their Lord,
Who taught that they who take the sword
For slaughter, by the sword shall fall.
Yes; they, whose only hope to inherit
A crown of glory lies in this,
That, having caught his peaceful spirit,
They're fitted to partake his bliss,
When to their "chief" a guard they prove,
And, marshalled, to the temple move,
To worship Him whose name is Love,
And to his praise to chant again
The hymn that, at their Saviour's birth,
Was sung by angels,--"Peace on earth!
Glory to God! Good will to men!"--
Move in the spirit of the camp,
To martial airs with martial tramp,
And even into the "PRESENCE" come
With bugle's blast and "tuck of drum."


See, now, in what a different manner
Come they before the King of kings,
Whom, as they mount their Arab steeds
For martial show, or martial deeds,
The Sultan's broad, bright scarlet banner
Waves over:--for, although the shade
Of that red banner,--like the sun
That burns above it,--falls upon
Faces that never blanched with fear,
And hands familiar with the spear
And scimetar's elastic blade,--
Warriors, like those,--(for in their sons
Máhomed's blood and Omar's runs,)--
Whose squadrons, by their Prophet led,
Looked at the Crescent o'er their head,
Gave and received the battle shock,
And onward, like a torrent, poured,
Carrying the Koran on the sword,
From Tigris's bank to Tarik's Rock,--
Yet, when these servants of a lord,
Whose faith was planted with the sword,
Move to the place where prayer is made,
They put their arms off, to a man,--
Pistols and sword and yataghan,--
And all the host, without parade,
Flows on, with movement calm and grave,
As does their own Caÿster's wave.
Move on, young men! 't is not in vain
That ye before Jehovah bow;
I never more shall see your train
As I, with reverence, see it now;
But there is One who e'er will see,
And to your prayer his ear will bend;--
The One who has been good to me
Ye worship, and he is your Friend.
I would, indeed, that ye could hear
The Word our Holy Book enshrines;
I would, indeed, that ye could rear
The Cross where now the Crescent shines!
But, till ye can, I will not close
My eyes against the proofs I see
That, in your hearts, the feeling glows
Of reverence for the Deity.
For, as I climb the hill that swells
From this, your Smyrna's, blooming plain,
And listen to the camels' bells,
And see their slowly winding train,
There seems a spirit in the air,
Inviting me to thought and prayer.


I look down on the cypress groves
That darken o'er the crowded dead,
And muse on all the hopes and loves
Of those who there have made their bed,
And ask myself if all that host,
Whose turbaned marbles o'er them nod,
Were doomed, when giving up the ghost,
To die as those who have no God!
No, no, my God! They worshipped Thee;
Then let not doubts my spirit darken,
That thou, who always hearest me,
To these, thy children too, didst hearken.


On Asia's ancient hills I tread;
There's something in the air that 's holy.
Here have my brethren made their bed,
And soon my sleep will be as lowly.
But hark! what is that mellow call,
That comes as from the bending sky,
And o'er the listening city swells
Sweeter than all our Christian bells,
And seems upon the ear to fall
Like angel voices from on high?
'T is the Muëzzin's monotone,
That, ere the stooping sun has set,
Is heard from yon tall minaret
Breaking out, solemn and alone,
And dying on the quiet air,--
"Lo, God is great! To prayer! To prayer!"
Is it thus holy, all around,
Because the hill I stand upon,
One of our earliest churches crowned,--
The church of the Apostle John?
O no! Where'er the people pray,
Bowing upon their hills around,
To Him who clothes those hills with day,
There, there, for me, is holy ground!
Let me recall,--it is the last,--
This grateful vision of the past.


The Euxine's breath was fresh and cool,
As down the Bosphorus it flowed;
I was returning to Stamboul,
From our Chargé's retired abode.--
The golden sun was not yet down,
But in the west was hanging low,
And gilding with a richer glow
The Crescents of the distant town.
Far, far without its triple wall,
O'er which the mantling ivies fall,
There stood forth a young Tactico
Before his hut; and to the sky
Now calmly raising his dark eye,
Now looking down, with both hands pressed
Across each other on his breast,
Now falling on his bended knees
Before Him who in secret sees,
Then bowing lowly towards the south,
With both hands covering his mouth
And resting on the fresh, green sod,
Was offering, all alone, to God
His sacrifice of evening prayer.--
He knew not that I saw him there;
And never, never, have I seen,
In Christian temple, high or low,
A worshipper that moved me so
As did that Turkish Tactico,
Bowing beneath the arch of blue,--
That, to refresh that sacred sod,
Was just then dropping down its dew,--
And offering on that altar green
His evening sacrifice to God!


O thus, ye Moslems, bow for ever,
And put the Christian world to shame!
But, brethren, brethren, will ye never
Your practice from your faith dissever,
And worship in another name?
Still let devotion's incense burn,
And mingle with your dying breath,
But from Arabia's Prophet turn,
And look to Him of Nazareth!
Whether within the gay kiosk
Ye offer up your daily prayer,
Or in the silence of the mosque,
When, voiceless, ye are bowing there,
Or in the hum of the bazaar,--
Think not of your Apostle's urn,
Nor yet to your Ca ba turn,
But turn, O turn, towards Bethlehem's Star!


Long has your Crescent's light been waning;
'T is waning, and yet more must wane;
While that bright Star new strength is gaining,
And must go on new strength to gain.
O turn, then, to its growing light!
The Moon nor rules nor leads the day;
Her power is only felt at night,
But fades before the morning's ray.
Your faith, beneath the eye of Truth
Must blench, and at her touch will fail;
While ours must e'er renew her youth,
As knowledge shall o'er earth prevail:--
For earth, with its all-clasping seas,
Is weighed by her anointed ones,
And Science hath revealed to these
The heavens with all their hosts of suns.
Then, from your Crescent's face so pale,
Whene'er ye worship, turn away;
And, as ye see our Day-Star burn
With broader splendor, to it turn;
And, kneeling in its radiance, say,
"Hail! rising Star of Bethlehem, hail!"