25.-PRAYER OF COLUMBUS A BATTERED, wrecked old man, Thrown on this savage shore, far, far from home, Pent by the sea and dark rebellious brows, twelve dreary months, Sore, stiff with many toils, sickened and nigh to death, I take my way along the island's edge, I am too full of woe! Haply I may not live another day: I cannot rest, O God, I cannot eat or drink or sleep, Till I put forth myself, my prayer, once more to Thee, Breathe, bathe myself once more in Thee, commune with Thee, Report myself once more to Thee. * * * * All my emprises have been filled with Thee, My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts of Thee, Sailing the deep or journeying the land for Thee : Intentions, purports, aspirations mine, leaving results to Thee. O I am sure they really came from Thee, A message from the Heavens whispering to me even in sleep: These sped me on. By me and these the work so far accomplished, By me earth's elder cloyed and stifled lands uncloyed, unloosed, By me the hemispheres rounded and tied, the unknown to the known. The end I know not, it is all in Thee: Or small or great I know not-what broad fields, what lands. Haply the brutish measureless human undergrowth I know Transplanted there may rise to stature, knowledge worthy Thee; Haply the swords I know may there indeed be turned to reaping-tools ; Haply the lifeless cross I know, Europe's dead cross, may bud and blossom there. One effort more, my altar this bleak sand. With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Light rare, untellable, lighting the very light, For that, O God, be it my latest word, here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralysed, I thank Thee. My terminus near, The clouds already closing in upon me, The voyage balked, the course disputed, lost, My hands, my limbs, grow nerveless, My brain feels racked, bewildered. Let the old timbers part, I will not part: I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me: Thee, Thee, at least I know. Is it the prophet's thought I speak, or am I raving? What do I know of life? what of myself? I know not even my own work past or present : Dim, ever-shifting guesses of it spread before me, Of newer better worlds, their mighty parturition, Mocking, perplexing me. And these things I see suddenly, what mean they? As if some miracle, some hand divine unsealed my eyes, Shadowy vast shapes smile through the air and sky, And on the distant waves sail countless ships, And anthems in new tongues I hear saluting me. WALT WHITMAN 26. AS IN A PICTURE WHITE, on a cliff they stood; Three there were one who wept, One with wide steadfast eyes Day, like a dying hymn, A solitary star Gleamed on them from afar. Beneath, by sand and cave Long time in reverent thought “O Lord of quick and dead!" L. MORRIS 27.-DARK ROSALEEN 1 (TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH) O MY dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green; Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen ! 1 Roisin Dubh: an old name for Ireland. The ballad, composed in the stormy days of Queen Elizabeth, was doubtless more or less allegorical. Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health and help and hope, My dark Rosaleen! Over hills and through dales Have I roamed for your sake; My own Rosaleen ! O there was lightning in my blood! All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move; Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my queen; My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen ! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, |