In calm and cool and silence, once againI find my old accustomed place amongMy brethren, where, perchance, no human tongueShall utter words; where never hymn is sung,Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung,Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane!There, syllabled by silence, let me hearThe still small voice which reached the prophet's ear;Read in my heart a still diviner lawThan Israel's leader on his tables saw!There let me strive with each besetting sin,Recall my wandering fancies, and restrainThe sore disquiet of a restless brain;And, as the path of duty is made plain,May grace be given that I may walk therein,Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain,With backward glances and reluctant tread,Making a merit of his coward dread,But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown,Walking as one to pleasant service led;Doing God's will as if it were my own,Yet trusting not in mine, but in His strength alone!1852.
The same old baffling questions! O my friend,I cannot answer them. In vain I sendMy soul into the dark, where never burnThe lamps of science, nor the natural lightOf Reason's sun and stars! I cannot learnTheir great and solemn meanings, nor discernThe awful secrets of the eyes which turnEvermore on us through the day and nightWith silent challenge and a dumb demand,Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown,Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone,Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand!I have no answer for myself or thee,Save that I learned beside my mother's knee;"All is of God that is, and is to be;And God is good." Let this suffice us still,Resting in childlike trust upon His willWho moves to His great ends unthwarted by the ill.1853.
At morn I prayed, "I fain would seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Read the dark riddle unto me."
I wandered forth, the sun and airI saw bestowed with equal careOn good and evil, foul and fair.
No partial favor dropped the rain;Alike the righteous and profaneRejoiced above their heading grain.
And my heart murmured, "Is it meetThat blindfold Nature thus should treatWith equal hand the tares and wheat?"
A presence melted through my mood,—A warmth, a light, a sense of good,Like sunshine through a winter wood.
I saw that presence, mailed completeIn her white innocence, pause to greetA fallen sister of the street.
Upon her bosom snowy pureThe lost one clung, as if secureFrom inward guilt or outward lure.
"Beware!" I said; "in this I seeNo gain to her, but loss to theeWho touches pitch defiled must be."
I passed the haunts of shame and sin,And a voice whispered, "Who thereinShall these lost souls to Heaven's peace win?
"Who there shall hope and health dispense,And lift the ladder up from thenceWhose rounds are prayers of penitence?"
I said, "No higher life they know;These earth-worms love to have it so.Who stoops to raise them sinks as low."
That night with painful care I readWhat Hippo's saint and Calvin said;The living seeking to the dead!
In vain I turned, in weary quest,Old pages, where (God give them rest!)The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed.
And still I prayed, "Lord, let me seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Read the dark riddle unto me!"
Then something whispered, "Dost thou prayFor what thou hast? This very dayThe Holy Three have crossed thy way.
"Did not the gifts of sun and airTo good and ill alike declareThe all-compassionate Father's care?
"In the white soul that stooped to raiseThe lost one from her evil ways,Thou saw'st the Christ, whom angels praise!
"A bodiless Divinity,The still small Voice that spake to theeWas the Holy Spirit's mystery!
"O blind of sight, of faith how small!Father, and Son, and Holy CallThis day thou hast denied them all!
"Revealed in love and sacrifice,The Holiest passed before thine eyes,One and the same, in threefold guise.
"The equal Father in rain and sun,His Christ in the good to evil done,His Voice in thy soul;—and the Three are One!"
I shut my grave Aquinas fast;The monkish gloss of ages past,The schoolman's creed aside I cast.
And my heart answered, "Lord, I seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Thy riddle hath been read to me!"1858.
The shade for me, but over theeThe lingering sunshine still;As, smiling, to the silent streamComes down the singing rill.
So come to me, my little one,—My years with thee I share,And mingle with a sister's loveA mother's tender care.
But keep the smile upon thy lip,The trust upon thy brow;Since for the dear one God hath calledWe have an angel now.
Our mother from the fields of heavenShall still her ear incline;Nor need we fear her human loveIs less for love divine.
The songs are sweet they sing beneathThe trees of life so fair,But sweetest of the songs of heavenShall be her children's prayer.
Then, darling, rest upon my breast,And teach my heart to leanWith thy sweet trust upon the armWhich folds us both unseen!1858
Dead Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps,Her stones of emptiness remain;Around her sculptured mystery sweepsThe lonely waste of Edom's plain.
From the doomed dwellers in the cleftThe bow of vengeance turns not back;Of all her myriads none are leftAlong the Wady Mousa's track.
Clear in the hot Arabian dayHer arches spring, her statues climb;Unchanged, the graven wonders payNo tribute to the spoiler, Time!
Unchanged the awful lithographOf power and glory undertrod;Of nations scattered like the chaffBlown from the threshing-floor of God.
Yet shall the thoughtful stranger turnFrom Petra's gates with deeper awe,To mark afar the burial urnOf Aaron on the cliffs of Hor;
And where upon its ancient guardThy Rock, El Ghor, is standing yet,—Looks from its turrets desertward,And keeps the watch that God has set.
The same as when in thunders loudIt heard the voice of God to man,As when it saw in fire and cloudThe angels walk in Israel's van,
Or when from Ezion-Geber's wayIt saw the long procession file,And heard the Hebrew timbrels playThe music of the lordly Nile;
Or saw the tabernacle pause,Cloud-bound, by Kadesh Barnea's wells,While Moses graved the sacred laws,And Aaron swung his golden bells.
Rock of the desert, prophet-sung!How grew its shadowing pile at length,A symbol, in the Hebrew tongue,Of God's eternal love and strength.
On lip of bard and scroll of seer,From age to age went down the name,Until the Shiloh's promised year,And Christ, the Rock of Ages, came!
The path of life we walk to-dayIs strange as that the Hebrews trod;We need the shadowing rock, as they,—We need, like them, the guides of God.
God send His angels, Cloud and Fire,To lead us o'er the desert sand!God give our hearts their long desire,His shadow in a weary land!1859.
"For of Him, and through Him, and to Him are all things,to whom be glory forever! "—PAUL.
Above, below, in sky and sod,In leaf and spar, in star and man,Well might the wise Athenian scanThe geometric signs of God,The measured order of His plan.
And India's mystics sang arightOf the One Life pervading all,—One Being's tidal rise and fallIn soul and form, in sound and sight,—Eternal outflow and recall.
God is: and man in guilt and fearThe central fact of Nature owns;Kneels, trembling, by his altar-stones,And darkly dreams the ghastly smearOf blood appeases and atones.
Guilt shapes the Terror: deep withinThe human heart the secret liesOf all the hideous deities;And, painted on a ground of sin,The fabled gods of torment rise!
And what is He? The ripe grain nods,The sweet dews fall, the sweet flowers blow;But darker signs His presence showThe earthquake and the storm are God's,And good and evil interflow.
O hearts of love! O souls that turnLike sunflowers to the pure and best!To you the truth is manifest:For they the mind of Christ discernWho lean like John upon His breast!
In him of whom the sibyl told,For whom the prophet's harp was toned,Whose need the sage and magian owned,The loving heart of God behold,The hope for which the ages groaned!
Fade, pomp of dreadful imageryWherewith mankind have deifiedTheir hate, and selfishness, and pride!Let the scared dreamer wake to seeThe Christ of Nazareth at his side!
What doth that holy Guide require?No rite of pain, nor gift of blood,But man a kindly brotherhood,Looking, where duty is desire,To Him, the beautiful and good.
Gone be the faithlessness of fear,And let the pitying heaven's sweet rainWash out the altar's bloody stain;The law of Hatred disappear,The law of Love alone remain.
How fall the idols false and grim!And to! their hideous wreck aboveThe emblems of the Lamb and Dove!Man turns from God, not God from him;And guilt, in suffering, whispers Love!
The world sits at the feet of Christ,Unknowing, blind, and unconsoled;It yet shall touch His garment's fold,And feel the heavenly AlchemistTransform its very dust to gold.
The theme befitting angel tonguesBeyond a mortal's scope has grown.O heart of mine! with reverence ownThe fulness which to it belongs,And trust the unknown for the known.1859.
"And I sought, whence is Evil: I set before the eye of my spirit the whole creation; whatsoever we see therein,—sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures,—yea, whatsoever there is we do not see,—angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almightiness cause it not to be? These thoughts I turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares." "And, admonished to return to myself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even beyond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. He who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity! O—Truth, who art Eternity! Love, who art Truth! Eternity, who art Love! And I beheld that Thou madest all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in its kind. Woe is me!—how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee." —AUGUSTINE'S Soliloquies, Book VII.
The fourteen centuries fall awayBetween us and the Afric saint,And at his side we urge, to-day,The immemorial quest and old complaint.
No outward sign to us is given,—From sea or earth comes no reply;Hushed as the warm Numidian heavenHe vainly questioned bends our frozen sky.
No victory comes of all our strife,—From all we grasp the meaning slips;The Sphinx sits at the gate of life,With the old question on her awful lips.
In paths unknown we hear the feetOf fear before, and guilt behind;We pluck the wayside fruit, and eatAshes and dust beneath its golden rind.
From age to age descends uncheckedThe sad bequest of sire to son,The body's taint, the mind's defect;Through every web of life the dark threads run.
Oh, why and whither? God knows all;I only know that He is good,And that whatever may befallOr here or there, must be the best that could.
Between the dreadful cherubimA Father's face I still discern,As Moses looked of old on Him,And saw His glory into goodness turn!
For He is merciful as just;And so, by faith correcting sight,I bow before His will, and trustHowe'er they seem He doeth all things right.
And dare to hope that Tie will makeThe rugged smooth, the doubtful plain;His mercy never quite forsake;His healing visit every realm of pain;
That suffering is not His revengeUpon His creatures weak and frail,Sent on a pathway new and strangeWith feet that wander and with eyes that fail;
That, o'er the crucible of pain,Watches the tender eye of LoveThe slow transmuting of the chainWhose links are iron below to gold above!
Ah me! we doubt the shining skies,Seen through our shadows of offence,And drown with our poor childish criesThe cradle-hymn of kindly Providence.
And still we love the evil cause,And of the just effect complainWe tread upon life's broken laws,And murmur at our self-inflicted pain;
We turn us from the light, and findOur spectral shapes before us thrown,As they who leave the sun behindWalk in the shadows of themselves alone.
And scarce by will or strength of oursWe set our faces to the day;Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal PowersAlone can turn us from ourselves away.
Our weakness is the strength of sin,But love must needs be stronger far,Outreaching all and gathering inThe erring spirit and the wandering star.
A Voice grows with the growing years;Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,Looks upward from her graves, and hears,"The Resurrection and the Life am I."
O Love Divine!—whose constant beamShines on the eyes that will not see,And waits to bless us, while we dreamThou 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 fireOn 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 GhostStoop, 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 glowedUpon the trance-bound shepherd's way.Who saw the Darkness overflowedAnd drowned by tides of everlasting Day.
Shine, light of God!—make broad thy scopeTo all who sin and suffer; moreAnd better than we dare to hopeWith Heaven's compassion make our longings poor!1860.
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 AmazonDarkly from sunset to the rising sun,
A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood,The long, despairing moan of solitudeAnd 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, Senor, not a bird. I know it well,—It is the pained soul of some infidelOr cursed heretic that cries from hell.
"Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair,He wanders, shrieking on the midnight airFor human pity and for Christian prayer.
"Saints strike him dumb! Our Holy Mother hathNo 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 senseOf nature plastic to benign intents,And an eternal good in Providence,
Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes;And to! 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 beLost to himself, but never lost to Thee!
"All souls are Thine; the wings of morning bearNone 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 is 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?"1862.
Andrew Rykman's dead and gone;You can see his leaning slateIn the graveyard, and thereonRead his name and date.
"Trust is truer than our fears," Runs the legend through the moss, "Gain is not in added years, Nor in death is loss."
Still the feet that thither trod,All the friendly eyes are dim;Only Nature, now, and GodHave a care for him.
There the dews of quiet fall,Singing birds and soft winds stray:Shall the tender Heart of allBe less kind than they?
What he was and what he isThey who ask may haply find,If they read this prayer of hisWhich he left behind.
. . . .
Pardon, Lord, the lips that dareShape in words a mortal's prayer!Prayer, that, when my day is done,And I see its setting sun,Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,Sink beneath the horizon's rim,—When this ball of rock and clayCrumbles from my feet away,And the solid shores of senseMelt into the vague immense,Father! I may come to TheeEven with the beggar's plea,As the poorest of Thy poor,With my needs, and nothing more.
Not as one who seeks his homeWith a step assured I come;Still behind the tread I hearOf my life-companion, Fear;Still a shadow deep and vastFrom my westering feet is cast,Wavering, doubtful, undefined,Never shapen nor outlinedFrom myself the fear has grown,And the shadow is my own.
Yet, O Lord, through all a senseOf Thy tender providenceStays my failing heart on Thee,And confirms the feeble knee;And, at times, my worn feet pressSpaces of cool quietness,Lilied whiteness shone uponNot by light of moon or sun.Hours there be of inmost calm,Broken but by grateful psalm,When I love Thee more than fear Thee,And Thy blessed Christ seems near me,With forgiving look, as whenHe beheld the Magdalen.Well I know that all things moveTo the spheral rhythm of love,—That to Thee, O Lord of all!Nothing can of chance befallChild and seraph, mote and star,Well Thou knowest what we areThrough Thy vast creative planLooking, from the worm to man,There is pity in Thine eyes,But no hatred nor surprise.Not in blind caprice of will,Not in cunning sleight of skill,Not for show of power, was wroughtNature's marvel in Thy thought.Never careless hand and vainSmites these chords of joy and pain;No immortal selfishnessPlays the game of curse and blessHeaven and earth are witnessesThat Thy glory goodness is.
Not for sport of mind and forceHast Thou made Thy universe,But as atmosphere and zoneOf Thy loving heart alone.Man, who walketh in a show,Sees before him, to and fro,Shadow and illusion go;All things flow and fluctuate,Now contract and now dilate.In the welter of this sea,Nothing stable is but Thee;In this whirl of swooning trance,Thou alone art permanence;All without Thee only seems,All beside is choice of dreams.Never yet in darkest moodDoubted I that Thou wast good,Nor mistook my will for fate,Pain of sin for heavenly hate,—Never dreamed the gates of pearlRise from out the burning marl,Or that good can only liveOf the bad conservative,And through counterpoise of hellHeaven alone be possible.
For myself alone I doubt;All is well, I know, without;I alone the beauty mar,I alone the music jar.Yet, with hands by evil stained,And an ear by discord pained,I am groping for the keysOf the heavenly harmonies;Still within my heart I bearLove for all things good and fair.Hands of want or souls in painHave not sought my door in vain;I have kept my fealty goodTo the human brotherhood;Scarcely have I asked in prayerThat which others might not share.I, who hear with secret shamePraise that paineth more than blame,Rich alone in favors lent,Virtuous by accident,Doubtful where I fain would rest,Frailest where I seem the best,Only strong for lack of test,—What am I, that I should pressSpecial pleas of selfishness,Coolly mounting into heavenOn my neighbor unforgiven?Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised,Comes a saint unrecognized;Never fails my heart to greetNoble deed with warmer beat;Halt and maimed, I own not lessAll the grace of holiness;Nor, through shame or self-distrust,Less I love the pure and just.Lord, forgive these words of mineWhat have I that is not Thine?Whatsoe'er I fain would boastNeeds Thy pitying pardon most.Thou, O Elder Brother! whoIn Thy flesh our trial knew,Thou, who hast been touched by theseOur most sad infirmities,Thou alone the gulf canst spanIn the dual heart of man,And between the soul and senseReconcile all difference,Change the dream of me and mineFor the truth of Thee and Thine,And, through chaos, doubt, and strife,Interfuse Thy calm of life.Haply, thus by Thee renewed,In Thy borrowed goodness good,Some sweet morning yet in God'sDim, veonian periods,Joyful I shall wake to seeThose I love who rest in Thee,And to them in Thee alliedShall my soul be satisfied.
Scarcely Hope hath shaped for meWhat the future life may be.Other lips may well be bold;Like the publican of old,I can only urge the plea,"Lord, be merciful to me!"Nothing of desert I claim,Unto me belongeth shame.Not for me the, crowns of gold,Palms, and harpings manifold;Not for erring eye and feetJasper wall and golden street.What thou wilt, O Father, give IAll is gain that I receive.
If my voice I may not raiseIn the elders' song of praise,If I may not, sin-defiled,Claim my birthright as a child,Suffer it that I to TheeAs an hired servant be;Let the lowliest task be mine,Grateful, so the work be Thine;Let me find the humblest placeIn the shadow of Thy graceBlest to me were any spotWhere temptation whispers not.If there be some weaker one,Give me strength to help him onIf a blinder soul there be,Let me guide him nearer Thee.Make my mortal dreams come trueWith the work I fain would do;Clothe with life the weak intent,Let me be the thing I meant;Let me find in Thy employPeace that dearer is than joy;Out of self to love be ledAnd to heaven acclimated,Until all things sweet and goodSeem my natural habitude.
. . . .
So we read the prayer of himWho, with John of Labadie,Trod, of old, the oozy rimOf 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?