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,
  “Cain 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.

* * * * *

Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare
Shape in words a mortal’s prayer! 
Prayer, that, when my day is done,
And I see its setting sun,
Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,
Sink beneath the horizon’s rim,—­
When this ball of rock and clay
Crumbles from my feet away,
And the solid shores of sense
Melt into the vague immense,
Father!  I may come to Thee
Even with the beggar’s plea,
As the poorest of Thy poor,
With my needs, and nothing more.

  Not as one who seeks his home
  With a step assured I come;
  Still behind the tread I hear
  Of my life-companion, Fear;
  Still a shadow deep and vast
  From my westering feet is cast,
  Wavering, doubtful, undefined,
  Never shapen nor outlined.

  From myself the fear has grown,
  And the shadow is my own. 
  Well I know that all things move
  To the spheral rhythm of love,—­
  That to Thee, O Lord of all! 
  Nothing can of chance befall: 
  Child and seraph, mote and star,
  Well Thou knowest what we are;
  Through Thy vast creative plan
  Looking, from the worm to man,
  There is pity in Thine eyes,
  But no hatred nor surprise. 
  Not in blind caprice of will,
  Not in cunning sleight of skill,
  Not for show of power, was wrought
  Nature’s marvel in Thy thought. 
  Never careless hand and vain
  Smites these chords of joy and pain;
  No immortal selfishness
  Plays the game of curse and bless: 
  Heaven and earth are witnesses
  That Thy glory goodness is. 
  Not for sport of mind and force
  Hast Thou made Thy universe,
  But as atmosphere and zone
  Of Thy loving heart alone. 
  Man, who walketh in a show,
  Sees before him, to and fro,
  Shadow and illusion go;
  All things flow and fluctuate,
  Now contract and now dilate. 
  In the welter of this sea,
  Nothing stable is but Thee;
  In this whirl of swooning trance,
  Thou alone art permanence;
  All without Thee only seems,
  All beside is choice of dreams.