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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 curséd 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,

Ļending new horror to that mournful cry, · The voyager listens, making no reply.

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
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 !

“ All souls are Thine; the wings of morning

bear None 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 ?”

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CROSS the sea I heard the groans n Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones,

And sucked by priestly cannibals.

I dreamed of freedom slowly gained

By martyr meekness, patience, faith. And lo! an athlete grimly stained, With corded muscles battle-strained,

Shouting it from the fields of death!

I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight,

Among the clamoring thousands mute,
I only know that God is right,
And that the children of the light

Shall tread the darkness under foot.

I know the pent fire heaves its crust,

That sultry skies the bolt will form
To smite them clear; that Nature must
The balance of her powers adjust,

Though with the earthquake and the storm.

God reigns, and let the earth rejoice!

I bow before His sterner plan. Dumb are the organs of my choice; He speaks in battle's stormy voice,

His praise is in the wrath of man!

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