Suffer it that I to Thee As an hired servant be; Let the lowliest task be mine, Grateful, so the work be Thine; Let me find the humblest place In the shadow of Thy grace: Blest to me were any spot Where temptation whispers not. If there be some weaker one, Give me strength to help him on; If a blinder soul there be, Let me guide him nearer Thee. Make my mortal dreams come true With the work I fain would do; Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant; Let me find in Thy employ Peace that dearer is than joy; Out of self to love be led And to heaven acclimated, Until all things sweet and good Seem my natural habitude.
So we read the prayer of him Who, with John of Labadie, Trod, of old, the oozy rim Of the Zuyder Zee.
Thus did Andrew Rykman pray.
Are we wiser, better grown, That we may not, in our day, Make his prayer our own?
THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.44
In that black forest, where, when day is done, With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood, The long, despairing moan of solitude And darkness and the absence of all good,
Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear, So full of hopeless agony and fear,
His heart stands still and listens like his ear.
The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll, Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale's thole, Crosses himself, and whispers, “A lost soul!”
"No, Señor, not a bird. I know it well,It is the pained soul of some infidel
Or cursed heretic that cries from hell.
"Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair, He wanders, shrieking on the midnight air For human pity and for Christian prayer.
"Saints strike him dumb! Our Holy Mother hath No prayer for him who, sinning unto death, Burns always in the furnace of God's wrath!"
Thus to the baptized pagan's cruel lie, Lending new horror to that mournful cry, The voyager listens, making no reply.
Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round, From giant trees with snake-like creepers wound, And the black water glides without a sound.
But in the traveller's heart a secret sense Of nature plastic to benign intents, And an eternal good in Providence,
Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes; And lo! rebuking all earth's ominous cries, The Cross of pardon lights the tropic skies!
"Father of all!" he urges his strong plea, "Thou lovest all: thy erring child may be Lost to himself, but never lost to Thee!
“All souls are Thine; the wings of morning bear None from that Presence which is everywhere, Nor hell itself can hide, for Thou art there.
“Through sins of sense, perversities of will, Through doubt and pain, through guilt and shame and ill,
Thy pitying eye iş on Thy creature still.
"Wilt thou not make, Eternal Source and Goal! In Thy long years, life's broken circle whole, And change to praise the cry of a lost soul ?"
ACROSS the sea I heard the groans
Of nations in the intervals
Their blood and bones
Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones, And sucked by priestly cannibals.
I dreamed of freedom slowly gained By martyr meekness, patience, faith. And lo! an athlete grimly stained,
With corded muscles battle-strained, Shouting it from the fields of death!
I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight, Among the clamoring thousands mute, I only know that God is right, And that the children of the light
Shall tread the darkness under foot.
I know the pent fire heaves its crust, That sultry skies the bolt will form To smite them clear; that Nature must The balance of her powers adjust,
Though with the earthquake and the storm.
God reigns, and let the earth rejoice! I bow before His sterner plan. Dumb are the organs of my choice; He speaks in battle's stormy voice, His praise is in the wrath of man!
Yet, surely as He lives, the day
Of peace He promised shall be ours, To fold the flags of war, and lay Its sword and spear to rust away,
And sow its ghastly fields with flowers!
No bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled bank below was still:
No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew;
For, from us, ere the day was done, The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified,-
A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom: With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night; The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed A long, slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled; It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side!
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