1868.
THE PRAYER-SEEKER.
Along the aisle where prayer was made, A woman, all in black arrayed, Close-veiled, between the kneeling host, With gliding motion of a ghost, Passed to the desk, and laid thereon A scroll which bore these words alone, _Pray for me_!
Back from the place of worshipping She glided like a guilty thing The rustle of her draperies, stirred By hurrying feet, alone was heard; While, full of awe, the preacher read, As out into the dark she sped: "_Pray for me_!"
Back to the night from whence she came, To unimagined grief or shame!
Across the threshold of that door None knew the burden that she bore; Alone she left the written scroll, The legend of a troubled soul,-- _Pray for me_!
Glide on, poor ghost of woe or sin!
Thou leav'st a common need within; Each bears, like thee, some nameless weight, Some misery inarticulate, Some secret sin, some shrouded dread, Some household sorrow all unsaid.
_Pray for us_!
Pass on! The type of all thou art, Sad witness to the common heart!
With face in veil and seal on lip, In mute and strange companionship, Like thee we wander to and fro, Dumbly imploring as we go _Pray for us_!
Ah, who shall pray, since he who pleads Our want perchance hath greater needs?
Yet they who make their loss the gain Of others shall not ask in vain, And Heaven bends low to hear the prayer Of love from lips of self-despair _Pray for us_!
In vain remorse and fear and hate Beat with bruised bands against a fate Whose walls of iron only move And open to the touch of love.
He only feels his burdens fall Who, taught by suffering, pities all.
_Pray for us_!
He prayeth best who leaves unguessed The mystery of another's breast.
Why cheeks grow pale, why eyes o'erflow, Or heads are white, thou need'st not know.
Enough to note by many a sign That every heart hath needs like thine.
_Pray for us_!
1870
THE BREWING OF SOMA.
"These libations mixed with milk have been prepared for Indra: offer Soma to the drinker of Soma." --Vashista, translated by MAX MULLER.
The fagots blazed, the caldron's smoke Up through the green wood curled; "Bring honey from the hollow oak, Bring milky sap," the brewers spoke, In the childhood of the world.
And brewed they well or brewed they ill, The priests thrust in their rods, First tasted, and then drank their fill, And shouted, with one voice and will, "Behold the drink of gods!"
They drank, and to! in heart and brain A new, glad life began; The gray of hair grew young again, The sick man laughed away his pain, The cripple leaped and ran.
"Drink, mortals, what the gods have sent, Forget your long annoy."
So sang the priests. From tent to tent The Soma's sacred madness went, A storm of drunken joy.
Then knew each rapt inebriate A winged and glorious birth, Soared upward, with strange joy elate, Beat, with dazed head, Varuna's gate, And, sobered, sank to earth.
The land with Soma's praises rang; On Gihon's banks of shade Its hymns the dusky maidens sang; In joy of life or mortal pang All men to Soma prayed.
The morning twilight of the race Sends down these matin psalms; And still with wondering eyes we trace The simple prayers to Soma's grace, That Vedic verse embalms.
As in that child-world's early year, Each after age has striven By music, incense, vigils drear, And trance, to bring the skies more near, Or lift men up to heaven!
Some fever of the blood and brain, Some self-exalting spell, The scourger's keen delight of pain, The Dervish dance, the Orphic strain, The wild-haired Bacchant's yell,--
The desert's hair-grown hermit sunk The saner brute below; The naked Santon, hashish-drunk, The cloister madness of the monk, The fakir's torture-show!
And yet the past comes round again, And new doth old fulfil; In sensual transports wild as vain We brew in many a Christian fane The heathen Soma still!
Dear Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways!
Reclothe us in our rightful mind, In purer lives Thy service find, In deeper reverence, praise.
In simple trust like theirs who heard Beside the Syrian sea The gracious calling of the Lord, Let us, like them, without a word, Rise up and follow Thee.
O Sabbath rest by Galilee!
O calm of hills above, Where Jesus knelt to share with Thee The silence of eternity Interpreted by love!
With that deep hush subduing all Our words and works that drown The tender whisper of Thy call, As noiseless let Thy blessing fall As fell Thy manna down.
Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy peace.
Breathe through the heats of our desire Thy coolness and Thy balm; Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire; Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire, O still, small voice of calm!
1872.
A WOMAN.
Oh, dwarfed and wronged, and stained with ill, Behold! thou art a woman still!
And, by that sacred name and dear, I bid thy better self appear.
Still, through thy foul disguise, I see The rudimental purity, That, spite of change and loss, makes good Thy birthright-claim of womanhood; An inward loathing, deep, intense; A shame that is half innocence.
Cast off the grave-clothes of thy sin!
Rise from the dust thou liest in, As Mary rose at Jesus' word, Redeemed and white before the Lord!
Reclairn thy lost soul! In His name, Rise up, and break thy bonds of shame.
Art weak? He 's strong. Art fearful? Hear The world's O'ercomer: "Be of cheer!"
What lip shall judge when He approves?
Who dare to scorn the child He loves?