Page:Lyra heroica.djvu/338

 314 LYALL

Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, Fain would I speak one word and be spared;

Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die, If I were only sure God cared;

If I had faith, and were only certain

That light is behind that terrible curtain.

But what if He listeth nothing at all,

Of words a poor wretch in his terror may say?

That mighty God who created all

To labour and live their appointed day;

Who stoops not either to bless or ban,

Weaving the woof of an endless plan.

He is the Reaper, and binds the sheaf, Shall not the season its order keep?

Can it be changed by a man's belief? Millions of harvests still to reap;

Will God reward, if I die for a creed,

Or will He but pity, and sow more seed?

Surely He pities who made the brain,

When breaks that mirror of memories sweet,

When the hard blow falleth, and never again Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat;

Bitter the vision of vanishing joys;

Surely He pities when man destroys.

Here stand I on the ocean's brink,

Who hath brought news of the further shore ?

How shall I cross it? Sail or sink, One thing is sure, I return no more;

Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be

Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea?

�� �