POETRY.
CONFESSIONAL Low), I have stumbled through the years
Of fitful hope that came and fled ; And I have drained the cup of tears, And—seen Love lying dead.
Oh, I have paced the lanes of Hell
Where brood the Vampires of Despair And Anguish. Lord, I dare not tell, I cannot tell what I saw there !
For Thou halt here Thy purging fires For them that fall and feel the shame. Nor e'en a soul that still aspires To Theeward is beyond reclaim.
The little hopes I deemed so great ;
The plans I looked upon as Life ? Ah me ! I saw at last, how late, No gozd is won without the Strife. And soaking Love awl seeking Light As one who hardly half expects, I stumbled on (in semi-night) The little prisons of the Sects: The little prisons where Thy Name " Lord ! Lord ! " resounds both loud and long ; Where they give glory or give blame In droning prayer and dreary song; Or one usurping some high power Lashes and whips with scorpion tongue ; A little god of clay, whose tower Shall crash to earth his schemes among.
And then, when all seemed counterfeit And the last hope had turned to gall ; When heaven was but a fiery sheet And life one hideous funeral ; Then Thou (before whose NAME I bow ; Whose Majesty I hold in awe) Didst say---" Release the prisoner now And salve his eyes ! "--and then—I saw !
Saw Thee the Faithful as of old, The Mighty God of Israel : Knew all was true Thy saints had told, Believed in Thee, in Heaven, in Hell !
And felt Thy Love course through my blood And soared on angel wings of bliss ; 0 Lord ! those bitter years were good, The anguish blest, to end in this For manhood sought but never found, Sprang out of weakness, hopeful, strong, And from my heart did out resound The Music of the new-found song.
Then, Lord, impart the strength to hold Against the subtle Earth God's rage (E'en as Thou didst to them of old), This, Thy divinest heritage.
And give the longing to impart The secret of Thy Holy Way To all who shrine within the heart The faintest hoping for Thy day.
THE AUTHOR OF " THE SACRAMENT."
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