| |
| IN that black forest, where, when day is done, | |
| With a snake’s stillness glides the Amazon | |
| Darkly from sunset to the rising sun, | |
| |
| A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood, | |
| The long, despairing moan of solitude | 5 |
| And darkness and the absence of all good, | |
| |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 cursèd heretic that cries from hell. | 15 |
| |
| “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, | 20 |
| Burns always in the furnace of God’s wrath!” | |
| |
| Thus to the baptized pagan’s cruel lie, | |
| Lending new horror to that mournful cry, | |
| The voyager listens, making no reply. | |
| |
| Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round, | 25 |
| From giant trees with snake-like 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, | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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?” | 45 |
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