LUTHER BENSON

POOR victim of that vulture curse

That hovers o'er the universe,

With ready talons quick to strike

In every human heart alike,

And cruel beak to stab and tear

In virtue's vitals everywhere,—

You need no sympathy of mine

To aid you, for a strength divine

Encircles you, and lifts you clear

Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor,

As, looking through the open door

Of your sad life, I only see

A broad landscape of misery,

And catch through mists of pitying tears

The ruins of your younger years,

I see a father's shielding arm

Thrown round you in a wild alarm —

Struck down, and powerless to free

Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark

And desolate — the latest spark

Of hope is passing in eclipse —

The prayer upon a mother's lips

Has fallen with her latest breath

In ashes on the lips of death —

I see a penitent who reels,

And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels,

And moans for mercy for the sake

Of that fond heart he dared to break.

And lo! as when in Galilee

A voice above the troubled sea

Commanded “Peace; be still!” the flood

That rolled in tempest-waves of blood

Within you, fell in calm so sweet

It ripples round the Saviour's feet;

And all your noble nature thrilled

With brightest hope and faith, and filled

Your thirsty soul with joy and peace

And praise to Him who gave release.