Where God is God and man is One poor, heart - broken, outcast For the soul's love of home than And, as about her heart they this? Oh yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free! whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. Old meadows, green with grass, To close the lids upon the eyes and trees Of the polluted and forlorn; A PRAYER Far was she from her childhood's home, Farther in guilt had wandered GOD! do not let my loved one die, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; O rich man's son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands: This is the best crop from thy A heritage, it seems to me, With sated heart, he hears the O poor man's son! scorn not thy What doth the poor man's son in- Worth being poor to hold in fee. herit? Stout muscles and a sinewy Both, heirs to some six feet of What doth the poor man's son in- On the rock the billow bursteth Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Hate and scorn and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind.' Forth into the night he hurled it, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom sea ward, Through the breakers all alone. II Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: 'Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart fold him, Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!' Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. 'Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.' III In his tower sits the poet, With a wonder sweet and dim. |