ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER1

ANDREW RYKMAN 's dead and gone;
You can see his leaning slate
In the graveyard, and thereon
Read 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 God Have a care for him.

There the dews of quiet fall,
Singing birds and soft winds stray:
Shall the tender Heart of all
Be less kind than they?

What he was and what he is

They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his Which he left behind.

Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare
Shape 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 clay
Crumbles from my feet away,
And the solid shores of sense
Melt into the vague immense,
Father! I may come to Thee
Even with the beggar's plea,
As the poorest of thy poor,
With my needs, and nothing more.

Not as one who seeks his home
With a step assured I come;
Still behind the tread I hear
Of my life-companion, Fear;
Still a shadow deep and vast
From my westering feet is cast,

ΤΟ

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1 In June, 1862, Whittier wrote to Fields, then editor of the Atlantic: I have by me a poem upon which I have bestowed much thought, and which I think is in some respects the best thing I have ever written. I will bring it or send it soon.' This poem was 'Andrew Rykman's Prayer.'

When I love Thee more than fear Thee,
And thy blessed Christ seems near me,
With forgiving look, as when
He beheld the Magdalen.

Well I know that all things move
To the spheral rhythm of love,
That to Thee, O Lord of all !
Nothing can of chance befall:
Child and seraph, mote and star,
Well Thou knowest what we are!
Through thy vast creative plan
Looking, 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 wrought
Nature's marvel in thy thought.
Never careless hand and vain
Smites these chords of joy and pain;
No immortal selfishness

Plays the game of curse and bless:
Heaven and earth are witnesses
That thy glory goodness is.
Not for sport of mind and force
Hast Thou made thy universe,
But as atmosphere and zone
Of 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 mood
Doubted I that Thou wast good,

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Nor mistook my will for fate,
Pain of sin for heavenly hate,
Never dreamed the gates of pearl
Rise from out the burning marl,
Or that good can only live
Of the bad conservative,

And through counterpoise of hell
Heaven alone be possible.

For myself alone I doubt;
All is well, I know, without;
I alone the beauty mar,
I alone the music jar.

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Yet, with hands by evil stained,
And an ear by discord pained,
I am groping for the keys
Of the heavenly harmonies;
Still within my heart I bear
Love for all things good and fair.
Hands of want or souls in pain
Have not sought my door in vain;
I have kept my fealty good
To the human brotherhood;
Scarcely have I asked in prayer
That which others might not share.
I, who hear with secret shame
Praise 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 press
Special pleas of selfishness,
Coolly mounting into heaven
On my neighbor unforgiven?
Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised,
Comes a saint unrecognized;
Never fails my heart to greet
Noble deed with warmer beat;
Halt and maimed, I own not less
All the grace of holiness;
Nor, through shame or self-distrust,
Less I love the pure and just.
Lord, forgive these words of mine:
What have I that is not Thine?
Whatsoe'er I fain would boast
Needs thy pitying pardon most.
Thou, O Elder Brother! who
In thy flesh our trial knew,

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Thou, who hast been touched by these
Our most sad infirmities,
Thou alone the gulf canst span
In the dual heart of man,

And between the soul and sense

Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me
What 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 feet
Jasper wall and golden street.
What Thou wilt, O Father, give!
All is gain that I receive.
If my voice I may not raise
In the elders' song of praise,
If I may not, sin-defiled,
Claim my birthright as a child,
Suffer it that I to Thee
As an hired servant be;
Let the lowliest task be mine,
Grateful, so the work be thine;
Let me find the humblest place
In the shadow of thy grace:
Blest to me were any spot
Where temptation whispers not.
If there be some weaker one,
Give me strength to help him on;
If a blinder soul there be,
Let me guide him nearer Thee.
Make my mortal dreams come true
With the work I fain would do;
Clothe with life the weak intent,
Let me be the thing I meant;
Let me find in thy employ
Peace that dearer is than joy;
Out of self to love be led
And to heaven acclimated,
Until all things sweet and good
Seem my natural habitude.

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In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass,

'Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made !'

A young man sighed, who saw them pass. Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand Whetting his scythe with a listless hand, 30 Hearing a voice in a far-off song, Watching a white hand beckoning long.

1 The Goody Cole who figures in this poem and 'The Changeling' was Eunice Cole, who for a quarter of a century or more was feared, persecuted, and hated as the witch of Hampton. She lived alone in a hovel a little distant from the spot where the Hampton Academy now stands, and there she died, unattended. When her death was discovered, she was hastily covered up in the earth near by, and a stake driven through her body, to exorcise the evil spirit. Rev. Stephen Bachiler or Batchelder was one of the ablest of the early New England preachers. His marriage late in life to a woman regarded by his church as disreputable induced him to return to England, where he enjoyed the esteem and favor of Oliver Cromwell during the Protectorate. (WHITTIER.)

See also Pickard's Whittier-Land, pp. 88-89.

Fie on the witch !' cried a merry girl,
As they rounded the point where Goody
Cole

Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl,
A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.
'Oho!' she muttered, 'ye're brave to-
day!

But I hear the little waves laugh and say, "The broth will be cold that waits at home;

For it 's one to go, but another to come!"'

'She's cursed,' said the skipper; 'speak her fair:

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I'm scary always to see her shake Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair, And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a

snake.'

But merrily still, with laugh and shout, From Hampton River the boat sailed out, Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,

And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.

They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,

Drawing up haddock and mottled cod; 50 They saw not the Shadow that walked beside,

They heard not the feet with silence shod. But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew, Shot by the lightnings through and through; And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,

Ran along the sky from west to east.

Goody Cole looked out from her door: The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,

Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar

Toss the foam from tusks of stone. She clasped her hands with a grip of pain, The tear on her cheek was not of rain: 'They are lost,' she muttered, 'boat and crew!

Lord, forgive me! my words were true!' 80

Suddenly seaward swept the squall;

The low sun smote through cloudy rack; The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all The trend of the coast lay hard and black. But far and wide as eye could reach, No life was seen upon wave or beach; The boat that went out at morning never Sailed back again into Hampton River.

O mower, lean on thy bended snath,

Look from the meadows green and low: The wind of the sea is a waft of death,

The waves are singing a song of woe! By silent river, by moaning sea, Long and vain shall thy watching be: Never again shall the sweet voice call, Never the white hand rise and fall!

O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight Ye saw in the light of breaking day! Dead faces looking up cold and white

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From sand and seaweed where they lay. The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept, 101 And cursed the tide as it backward crept: 'Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake! Leave your dead for the hearts that break!'

Solemn it was in that old day

In Hampton town and its log-built church, Where side by side the coffins lay

And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.

In the singing-seats young eyes were dim, The voices faltered that raised the hymn, 110 And Father Dalton, grave and stern, Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.

But his ancient colleague did not pray; Under the weight of his fourscore years He stood apart with the iron-gray

Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears;

And a fair-faced woman of doubtful fame, Linking her own with his honored name,

Flitting, passing, seen and gone,

1864.

Never reached nor found at rest,
Baffling search, but beckoning on

To the Sunset of the Blest.

1 Whittier wrote to Fields, September 27, 1864: 'I take the liberty of inclosing a little poem of mine which has beguiled some weary hours. I hope thee will like it. How strange it seems not to read it to my sister! If thee have read Schoolcraft thee will remember what he says of the Puck-wud-jinnies, or "Little Vanishers." The legend is very beautiful, and I hope I have done it justice in some sort.'