# A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/Religious and Metaphysical poems

RELIGIOUS AND METAPHYSICAL POEMS.
FOLLOW THE LIGHT.
A dewdrop in shade of slenderest blade; A foam-flake on verge of mountainous surge;
Delusive lake where deserts bake, Or passing shade by an eagle made;
One golden ray on a wintry day; A cloud's brief bliss 'neath the sunset-kiss.
Life's toil and strain but this to gain! When lasting treasure no thought can measure
He may surely find, who with steadfast mind Keeps trimmed and bright the Inward Light.
That Light may lead where feet shall bleed, And voices drear assail the ear,
When horrid sights shall throng the nights, And days be rife with fears and strife.
The treasure by thee will be found, maybe, Amid the rattle and smoke of battle.
Or far it may lie 'neath a flickering sky 'Mid wastes ablaze in the scorching rays.
Perchance it peers where Winter rears In the Arctic zone his eternal throne;
Or far, it may be, 'neath the purple sea On a weltering steep of the sunless deep.
But how or where be not thy care: That priceless treasure no thought can measure,
He shall surely find who with steadfast mind Keeps trimmed and bright the Inward Light.
Through toil, through pain, in loss, in gain, By day, by night, follow the Light.
Rev. A. Vine Hall.
LORD OF ANGELS.
Lord of angels! from the splendour Where the hosts of light Throng to do Thy will, Thou camest To our sin and night.
Camest Servant of the servile; Saviour of the lost; Lord of angels!—Christ of Calvary! Careless of the cost.
Boundless love! sublime compassion! Gazing at Thy cross Some have scorned the world's ambitions, Held its gain but loss.
Teach us all to know more nearly What Thy grief and love, What our bitter need which drew Thee From the bliss above.
That our hearts with true devotion May be Thine to-day, And our lives henceforward fruitful, In good works alway.
Rev. A. Vine Hall.
A HYMN.
When morn awakes our hearts To pour the matin prayer; When toil-worn day departs, And gives a pause to care; When those our souls love best Kneel with us, in Thy fear, To ask Thy peace and rest— O God, our Father, hear!
When worldly snares without, And evil thoughts within, Stir up some impious doubt, Or lure us back to sin; When human strength proves frail, And will but half sincere; When faith begins to fail— O God, our Father, hear!
When in our cup of mirth The drop of trembling falls, And the frail props of earth Are crumbling round our walls; When back we gaze with grief, And forward glance with fear, When faileth man's relief— O God, our Father, hear!
When on the verge we stand Of the eternal clime, And Death with solemn hand Draws back the veil of Time;
When flesh and spirit quake Before Thee to appear— For the Redeemer's sake, O God, our Father, hear!
Thomas Pringle.
A HYMN.
"Without Me ye can do nothing."—John xv. 5.
Not unto us, O Lord, But praise to Thee be given: Thy love has saved us from the sword; Thy grace, when we have striven.
Created, Thee to sing, Save Thou our service bless, The best that we can breathe or bring Is very nothingness.
Not ours one holy thought, Not ours one fleeting breath, But that Thy grace the wonder wrought— Thou, Lord of life and death.
And simply that we stand Within this earthly light, Was boon unsought, eternal planned In counsels infinite.
But yet more wondrous far— Left free our lot to choose, Where gleam Thy rays, O Morning Star! We follow, or refuse.
Dread marvel of free-will! Can we withhold, or bring? Oh, give us grace to choose Thee still, Dear Lord, Almighty King.
Mystery yet more sublime! In this our mortal hour, The realms surpassing space and time Thou puttest in our power.
New-born a princely line, Made heirs of heavenly state, The will to serve Thee, Lord, is Thine, On Whom all creatures wait.
Sweet Saviour, Mystic Grace, Who mad'st Thy servants free, Grant us through life to seek Thy face, And reign at last with Thee.
George Kett.
THOU HAST HIS CARE.
Look up, sad soul! Forget not how The Master toil'd When on this earth. His sacred brow Was often soil'd With labour's sweat. Then, labour thou, Tho' joy-despoiled.
Nor think to find thy rest on earth! Here is no sound Of peace—but discord from our birth, Until we've found The grave. Life's, at its utmost worth, A weary round
Of toil and care! Doth trial sore, Or cruel scorn O'erwhelm thee? Remember Him who wore A crown of thorn! How patiently His cross He bore On shoulders worn.
And aching 'neath the load which press'd Most heavily! Ah, soul! by every little cross distress'd, Ah! think how He Was mock'd, and scorn'd, and sore oppress'd
With grief—for thee!
Take up thy burden, cheerfully; Thou hast His care! He will not let it heavier be Than thou canst bear; So follow Him, and thro' eternity His glory share!
"Mu."
LIFE.
Toiling always, reaping naught, Never finding what is sought, Life with all unrest is fraught, Pain with joy walks hand in hand, Casting shadows o'er the land, A mysterious, mocking band. Love draws but a fitful breath: Hate soon steals her rosy wreath. Life springs forth from ghastly Death. How to part the tangled thread Which before me now is spread, I cannot tell. In pious dread, At the footstool of my King I will leave all questioning, All my vain unravelling.
"Mu."
THE PRAYER.
Talk not of prayers that fail; the prayers unheard Are not the askings Paul meant when he said: "Pray without ceasing." Be thou well assured, The true petition, not of barren word, But plumed of deed, scales Heaven overhead, Where souls and suns from God's high throne are shed. Pray without ceasing, let good deeds unfold Like petals of a rose, until, complete, The flower of asking, full and fair and sweet, Is fit for God's right hand to take and hold. False prayers are barren breath, like vapour rolled Between men and the stars; they hide the feet Of angels. But the true prayer, wise and meet, From chiming sphere to sphere on high is told.
W. C. Scully.
AVE MARIA.
Night steals with silent wings On lower and town, The darkness creeps and clings By dale and down, The stars shine manifold In Heaven above; The world is grey and cold—
Give me thy love, Mater amabilis Ora pro me!
My heart is dark within With fear and shame; What respite may I win From my self-blame? I dare not lift mine eyes To thy pure face— O Mother, kind and wise, Give me thy grace, Mater castissima Ora pro me!
One silver lamp burns low Before thy feet, Dim shadows come and go, Vague murmurs fleet—
I seek through nights and days, Disconsolate, Beyond these gloomy ways, The golden gate, O Rosa mystica Ora pro me!
J. R. E.
THE OPEN VISION.
Oh, to be out in the open! Where the peace of God distills In the whispering of leafy woods And the lilt of limpid rills, And the great calm of creation broods On the strength of the holy hills.
Oh, to be out in the open! With the blue sky over me, Up-vaulting from the weather-gleam Of the vast, encircling sea, With its riplets roll'd In Heaven's cloth of gold, Or its great waves riding free,— Their white crests lasht By the stormy blast,— Yet owning man's mastery, As his brave bark sweeps Through the surging deeps To the haven where he would be!
Oh, to be out in the open! Afar from the bigoted crew, To walk in Heaven's light And press on to the right, Whose virtue makes all things new, Sweeping lies, in God's name, To the pit of their shame, By homage to that which is true!
But oh, to be in from the open! Where the limitless, unconfined Immensities of time and space, O'erwhelm the human mind; As Heaven's host we scan, Lord, what is man?— The drudge of a day In his house of clay— A mite of earth's crust Who returns to his dust!
Oh! well to be in from the open Of the vastitudes profound,— The terrors of eternities
In which man's thoughts are drowned; With the Witness that tells That the pure heart dwells In the House of the Lord even here, With the Word Divine that is near, Giving power to descry The fair mansions on high, Where at home we shall be With God's whole family, To behold all His grace In the Son of Man's face.
J. P. Ritchie.
UNDER THE RED MAST-LIGHT.
The sun has set, the twilight glow has fled, The stars begin to twinkle overhead, The veil of darkness on the deep is spread.
Pacing the deck, into the night I pry, The waves leap up and clap their hands on high, I hear the night winds wail and sob and sigh.
What stills the heart amidst the waste, dark night? The Captain's eye will read the course aright, The compass gleams before the Steersman's sight.
Across the deep the destined haven lies, Bathed in the light of sunny southern skies, And soon will gladden our expectant eyes.
Deep unto Deep proclaims God's sovereignty, He makes the darkness that is covering me, And fearlessly I sail with Him the sea That brings me to the Port where I would be.
J. P. Ritchie.
VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF KOSEGARTEN.)
Through gloom to light! And though grey darkness banish Fair Nature from thy longing eyes, All's well! all's well! The shadows soon shall vanish, And bright and clear thy morn shall rise.
Through storm to calm! And if life's lightning flashing, With thunder's roar, o'erpower thy will, Faint heart, be brave! Above the billows' crashing A voice divine cries, "Peace, be still!"
Through frost to spring! Though winter's snowy fleeces Hide every trace of Nature's store, All's well! all's well! For when the hoar-frost ceases, Earth fills her lap with flowers once more.
Through strife to peace! And if fell foes surround thee, And succour thou implore in vain, Faint heart, be brave! When vict'ry shall have crowned thee, Triumph begins its endless reign.
Through toil to rest! And though the midday swelter, And dull fatigue sap all thy strength, Faint heart, endure! For eventide brings shelter, And with it kindly sleep at length.
Through cross to crown! And though the world seem stronger, And daily weaker, fainter thou— All's well! all's well! Endure a brief spell longer: God's victory shall crown thy brow.
Through tears to joy! If morning find thee weeping And sorrow fill the livelong night, Faint heart, endure! Thy lot is in God's keeping, And there e'en pain becomes delight.
Through death to life! Though earth be with its sorrow A mortal waste of sin and strife, All's well! all's well! In Heaven's eternal morrow Death shall be swallowed up in life.
F. C. Kolbe.
THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., FELLING-ON-TYNE.