Narrative and Legendary Poems, Complete eBook

Two leagues from Agra still the traveller sees
The tomb of Akbar through its cypress-trees;
And, near at hand, the marble walls that hide
The Christian Begum sleeping at his side. 
And o’er her vault of burial (who shall tell
If it be chance alone or miracle?)
The Mission press with tireless hand unrolls
The words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls,—­
Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o’er,
And bids the guilty, “Go and sin no more!”

. . . . . . . . . . .

It now was dew-fall; very still
The night lay on the lonely hill,
Down which our homeward steps we bent,
And, silent, through great silence went,
Save that the tireless crickets played
Their long, monotonous serenade. 
A young moon, at its narrowest,
Curved sharp against the darkening west;
And, momently, the beacon’s star,
Slow wheeling o’er its rock afar,
From out the level darkness shot
One instant and again was not. 
And then my friend spake quietly
The thought of both:  “Yon crescent see! 
Like Islam’s symbol-moon it gives
Hints of the light whereby it lives
Somewhat of goodness, something true
From sun and spirit shining through
All faiths, all worlds, as through the dark
Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark,
Attests the presence everywhere
Of love and providential care. 
The faith the old Norse heart confessed
In one dear name,—­the hopefulest
And tenderest heard from mortal lips
In pangs of birth or death, from ships
Ice-bitten in the winter sea,
Or lisped beside a mother’s knee,—­
The wiser world hath not outgrown,
And the All-Father is our own!”

NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.

Nauhaught, the Indian deacon, who of old
Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape
Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds
And the relentless smiting of the waves,
Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream
Of a good angel dropping in his hand
A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God.

He rose and went forth with the early day
Far inland, where the voices of the waves
Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves,
As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods,
He searched his traps.  Therein nor beast nor bird
He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools
The otter plashed, and underneath the pines
The partridge drummed:  and as his thoughts went back
To the sick wife and little child at home,
What marvel that the poor man felt his faith
Too weak to bear its burden,—­like a rope
That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above
The hand that grasps it.  “Even now, O Lord! 
Send me,” he prayed, “the angel of my dream! 
Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait.”