| |
| “THERE is no God,” the foolish saith, | |
| But none, “There is no sorrow”; | |
| And nature oft the cry of faith | |
| In bitter need will borrow: | |
| Eyes which the preacher could not school, | 5 |
| By wayside graves are raised; | |
| And lips say, “God be pitiful,” | |
| Who ne’er said, “God be praised.” | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| The tempest stretches from the steep | 10 |
| The shadow of its coming; | |
| The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, | |
| As help were in the human: | |
| Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind | |
| We spirits tremble under!— | 15 |
| The hills have echoes; but we find | |
| No answer for the thunder. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| The battle hurtles on the plains— | |
| Earth feels new scythes upon her: | 20 |
| We reap our brothers for the wains, | |
| And call the harvest, honor,— | |
| Draw face to face, front line to line, | |
| One image all inherit,— | |
| Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, | 25 |
| Clay, clay,—and spirit, spirit. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| The plague runs festering through the town, | |
| And never a bell is tolling: | |
| And corpses jostled ’neath the moon, | 30 |
| Nod to the dead-cart’s rolling. | |
| The young child calleth for the cup— | |
| The strong man brings it weeping; | |
| The mother from her babe looks up, | |
| And shrieks away its sleeping. | 35 |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| The plague of gold strides far and near, | |
| And deep and strong it enters: | |
| This purple chimar which we wear, | |
| Makes madder than the centaur’s. | 40 |
| Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange; | |
| We cheer the pale gold-diggers— | |
| Each soul is worth so much on ’Change, | |
| And marked, like sheep, with figures. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | 45 |
| |
| The curse of gold upon the land, | |
| The lack of bread enforces— | |
| The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, | |
| Like more of Death’s White Horses: | |
| The rich preach “rights” and future days, | 50 |
| And hear no angel scoffing: | |
| The poor die mute—with starving gaze | |
| On corn-ships in the offing. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| We meet together at the feast— | 55 |
| To private mirth betake us— | |
| We stare down in the winecup lest | |
| Some vacant chair should shake us! | |
| We name delight, and pledge it round— | |
| “It shall be ours to-morrow!” | 60 |
| God’s seraphs, do your voices sound | |
| As sad in naming sorrow? | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| We sit together, with the skies, | |
| The steadfast skies, above us: | 65 |
| We look into each other’s eyes, | |
| “And how long will you love us?” | |
| The eyes grow dim with prophecy, | |
| The voice is low and breathless— | |
| “Till death us part!”—O words, to be | 70 |
| Our best for love the deathless! | |
| Be pitiful, dear God! | |
| |
| We tremble by the harmless bed | |
| Of one loved and departed— | |
| Our tears drop on the lids that said | 75 |
| Last night, “Be stronger hearted!” | |
| O God,—to clasp those fingers close, | |
| And yet to feel so lonely!— | |
| To see a light upon such brows, | |
| Which is the daylight only! | 80 |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| The happy children come to us, | |
| And look up in our faces: | |
| They ask us—Was it thus, and thus, | |
| When we were in their places? | 85 |
| We cannot speak:—we see anew | |
| The hills we used to live in; | |
| And feel our mother’s smile press through | |
| The kisses she is giving. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | 90 |
| |
| We pray together at the kirk, | |
| For mercy, mercy, solely— | |
| Hands weary with the evil work, | |
| We lift them to the Holy! | |
| The corpse is calm below our knee— | 95 |
| Its spirit bright before thee— | |
| Between them, worse than either, we— | |
| Without the rest of glory! | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| We leave the communing of men, | 100 |
| The murmur of the passions; | |
| And live alone, to live again | |
| With endless generations. | |
| Are we so brave?—The sea and sky | |
| In silence lift their mirrors; | 105 |
| And, glassed therein, our spirits high | |
| Recoil from their own terrors. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| We sit on hills our childhood wist, | |
| Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding: | 110 |
| The sun strikes through the farthest mist, | |
| The city’s spire to golden. | |
| The city’s golden spire it was, | |
| When hope and health were strong; | |
| But now it is the churchyard grass, | 115 |
| We look upon the longest. | |
| Be pitiful, O God! | |
| |
| And soon all vision waxeth dull— | |
| Men whisper, “He is dying”: | |
| We cry no more, “Be pitiful!”— | 120 |
| We have no strength for crying: | |
| No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine, | |
| Look up and triumph rather— | |
| Lo! in the depth of God’s Divine, | |
| The Son adjures the Father— | 125 |
| BE PITIFUL, O GOD. | |
| |
