The Story
of Saville
IX.
O friend! if a brother, struggling and faint, cries out for thy helping hand,
And begs for a draught of water or wine in a barren and fountainless land,—
If a human soul in a need extreme where the weltering surges roll
Entreats for a token of sympathy, the touch of a stancher soul,
Hasten, O hasten to give of thy strength! let not the poor sufferer wait,
For the sand burns white and the waves leap fierce, and to-morrow it may be too late,—
Thou shalt haply see in the morning sun an outworn shell at thy gate!
Saville had responded to Kyrle’s wild prayer, and so was permitted to save
His wounded faith and his breaking heart from the dusty dark of the grave,
And the days like white-winged birds wheeled by, and nearer and nearer they grew,
And each was a light in the other’s life, tinging its grayness through
With a cordial warmth, as in winter wolds vermilion barberries do,—
Ah me! ’tis a world of shadows we walk in, and happy is he who can cling
