 | Benoni |  |
244
THE PREACHER.
Hast thou considered thy soul,
And all that is therein—
The throes that shake the unsettled whole,
The sorrow and the sin?
And all that is therein—
The throes that shake the unsettled whole,
The sorrow and the sin?
Gigantic mysteries are rife,
And fairy wonders small—
But unto thee thy proper life
Is stranger than them all.
And fairy wonders small—
But unto thee thy proper life
Is stranger than them all.
So many natures intermix—
Such diverse threads are spun—
That none avail to fuse and fix
Its elements to one:
Such diverse threads are spun—
That none avail to fuse and fix
Its elements to one:
Such doubts distract, such strifes deform,
And toward some unknown bourne
Such longings lead it thro' the storm,
And leave it there to mourn!
And toward some unknown bourne
Such longings lead it thro' the storm,
And leave it there to mourn!
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And yet it is a tender thing,
And often o'er the leas
Will stoop and hearken on the wing
To him that speaks of peace:
And often o'er the leas
Will stoop and hearken on the wing
To him that speaks of peace:
And yet it is a thing of faith,
And willeth to believe;
A noble thing to cope with scathe,
To struggle, and to grieve:
And willeth to believe;
A noble thing to cope with scathe,
To struggle, and to grieve:
And yet it is a kindly thing,
And often in the tent
Of gay Gitana joys doth sing
Its spirit to content:
And often in the tent
Of gay Gitana joys doth sing
Its spirit to content:
And yet it hath a royal mind,
And strength of nerve and eye
To hail new knowledge on the wind,
And grasp it, and apply:
And strength of nerve and eye
To hail new knowledge on the wind,
And grasp it, and apply:
And yet it is a thing of love,
And yearning as a bride;
And plaineth like an errant dove
That hath not where to hide.
And yearning as a bride;
And plaineth like an errant dove
That hath not where to hide.
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O, yes—the soul is large and deep;
There are lone alleys there,
Where always Hope may walk, nor weep,
Nor faint into despair:
There are lone alleys there,
Where always Hope may walk, nor weep,
Nor faint into despair:
For echoes somewhere in the woods
Shall carol back to her;
And in the granite cliffs their floods
Of future waters stir.
Shall carol back to her;
And in the granite cliffs their floods
Of future waters stir.
Therefore, put strength into thy heart,
And leave the stranded shore;
The Christ that makes thee what thou art
Shall mould thee into more.
And leave the stranded shore;
The Christ that makes thee what thou art
Shall mould thee into more.
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