Blest to me were any spot Give me strength to help him on ; Let me guide him nearer Thee. Let me find in Thy employ Out of self to love be led And to heaven acclimated, Until all things sweet and good Seem my natural habitude. So we read the prayer of him Trod, of old, the oozy rim Of 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? THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.* N that black forest, where, when day is IN done, With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood, *Lieut. 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"! Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear, 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 cursed 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, Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round, From giant trees with snakelike creepers wound, And the black water glides without a sound. But in the traveller's heart a secret sense Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes; "Father of all!" he urges his strong plea, "Thou lovest all: thy erring child may be Lost to himself, but never lost to Thee! |