Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/470

438   :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!

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!