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 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, Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale's thole, Crosses himself, and whispers, "A lost soul!" "No, Senor, not a bird. I know it well,-- It is the pained soul of some infidel Or cursed heretic that cries from hell. "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, 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, 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, Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes; And to! 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 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, 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?" 1862. ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER Andrew Rykman's dead and gone; You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon Read his name and date. "_Trust is truer than our fears_," Runs the legend through the moss, "_Gain is not in added years, Nor in death is loss_." Still the feet that thither trod, All the friendly eyes are dim; Only Nature, now, and God Have a care for him. There the dews of quiet fall, Singing birds and soft winds stray: Shall the tender Heart of all Be less kind than they? What he was and what he is They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his Which he left behind. . . . .