O Love Divine!—whose constant beam
Shines on the eyes that will not see,
And waits to bless us, while we dream
Thou leavest us because we turn from thee!
All souls that struggle and aspire,
All hearts of prayer by thee are lit;
And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fire
On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit.
Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know’st,
Wide as our need thy favors fall;
The white wings of the Holy Ghost
Stoop, seen or unseen, o’er the heads of all.
O Beauty, old yet ever new!
Eternal Voice, and Inward Word,
The Logos of the Greek and Jew,
The old sphere-music which the Samian heard!
Truth which the sage and prophet saw,
Long sought without, but found within,
The Law of Love beyond all law,
The Life o’erflooding mortal death and sin!
Shine on us with the light which glowed
Upon the trance-bound shepherd’s way,
Who saw the Darkness overflowed
And drowned by tides of everlasting Day.
Shine, light of God!—make broad thy scope
To all who sin and suffer; more
And better than we dare to hope
With Heaven’s compassion make our longings poor!
THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL
Lieutenant Herndon’s Report of the Exploration of the Amazon has a striking description of the peculiar and melancholy notes of a bird heard by night on the shores of the river. The Indian guides called it “The Cry of a Lost Soul”! Among the numerous translations of this poem is one by the Emperor of Brazil.
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 cursëd 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!
