I DO believe, and yet, in grief,
I pray for help to unbelief;"
For needful strength aside to lay
The daily cumberings of my way.

"I'm sick at heart of craft and cant,
Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant,
Profession's smooth hypocrisies,
And creeds of iron, and lives of ease.

"I ponder o'er the sacred word, I read the record of our Lord; And, weak and troubled, envy them Who touched his seamless garment's hem;

"Who saw the tears of love he wept Above the grave where Lazarus slept; And heard, amidst the shadows dim Of Olivet, his evening hymn.

"How blessed the swineherd's low estate,

The beggar crouching at the gate,
The leper loathly and abhorred,
Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord!

"O sacred soil his sandals pressed!
Sweet fountains of his noonday rest!
O light and air of Palestine,
Impregnate with his life divine!

"O, bear me thither! Let me look
On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook,
Kneel at Gethsemane, and by
Genesaret walk, before I die!

"Methinks this cold and northern night
Would melt before that Orient light;
And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain,
My childhood's faith revive again!"

So spake my friend, one autumn day,
Where the still river slid away
Beneath us, and above the brown
Red curtains of the woods shut down.

Then said I, for I could not brook
The mute appealing of his look,
"I, too, am weak, and faith is small,
And blindness happeneth unto all.

"Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal right;

And, step by step, since time began,
I see the steady gain of man ;

"That all of good the past hath had
Remains to make our own time glad, -
Our common daily life divine,
And every land a Palestine.

"Thou weariest of thy present state;
What gain to thee time's holiest date?
The doubter now perchance had been
As High Priest or as Pilate then!
"What thought Chorazin's scribes?
What faith

In Him had Nain and Nazareth?
Of the few followers whom He led
One sold him, all forsook and fled.

"For still the new transcends the old, In signs and tokens manifold; Slaves rise up men; the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves!

"Through the harsh noises of our day A low, sweet prelude finds its way; Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear,

A light is breaking, calm and clear.

"That song of Love, now low and far, Erelong shall swell from star to star! That light, the breaking day, which tips The golden-spired Apocalypse!"

Then, when my good friend shook his head,

And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said:
"Thou mind'st me of a story told
In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold." 53

And while the slanted sunbeams wove
The shadows of the frost-stained grove,
And, picturing all, the river ran
O'er cloud and wood, I thus began:

In Mount Valerien's chestnut wood
The Chapel of the Hermits stood;
And thither, at the close of day,
Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray.

One, whose impetuous youth defied
The storms of Baikal's wintry side,
And mused and dreamed where tropic
day

Flamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay.

His simple tale of love and woe
All hearts had melted, high or low
A blissful pain, a sweet distress,
Immertal in its tenderness.

Yet, while above his charméd page
Beat quick the young heart of his age,
He walked amidst the crowd unknown,
A sorrowing old man. strange and lone.

A homeless, troubled age. -
the gray
Fale setting of a weary day;
Too dull his ear for voice of praise,
Teo sadly worn his brow for bays.

Pride, lust of power and glory, slept;
Yet still his heart its young dream kept,
And, wandering like the deluge-dove,
Still sought the resting-place of love.

And, mateless, childless, envied more
The peasant's welcome from his door
By smiling eyes at eventide,
Than kingly gifts or lettered pride.

Until, in place of wife and child,
All-pitying Nature on him smiled,
And gave to him the golden keys
To all her inmost sanctities.

Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim! She laid her great heart bare to him, Its loves and sweet accords; - he saw The beauty of her perfect law.

The language of her signs he knew, What notes her cloudy clarion blew; The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes, The hymn of sunset's painted skies.

And thus he seemed to hear the song
Which swept, of old, the stars along;
And to his eyes the earth once more
Its fresh and primal beauty wore.

'Who sought with him, from summer air,
And field and wood, a balm for care;
And bathed in light of sunset skies
His tortured nerves and weary eyes?

His fame on all the winds had flown;
His words had shaken crypt and throne;
Like fire, on camp and court and cell
They dropped, and kindled as they fell.

Beneath the pomps of state, below
The mitred juggler's masque and show,
A prophecy-a vague hope- ran
His burning thought from man to man.

For peace or rest too well he saw
The fraud of priests, the wrong of law
And felt how hard, between the two,
Their breath of pain the millions drew

A prophet-utterance, strong and wild,
The weakness of an unweaned child,
A sun-bright hope for human-kind,
And self-despair, in him combined.