A Bird’s Ministry.
Margaret J. Preston.
From his home in an eastern bungalow,
In sight of the everlasting snow
Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,
Thus wrote my friend:
“I had traveled far
From the Afghan towers of Candahar,
Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
“And once, when the daily march was o’er,
As tired I sat in my tented door,
Hope failed me, as never it failed before.
“In swarming city, at wayside fane,
By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain,
I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.
“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears;
The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fears
Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.
“‘For Christ and His truth I stand alone
In the midst of millions; a sand-grain blown
Against yon temple of ancient stone.
“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsook
My soul, as I turned on the pile to look;
Then rising, my saddened way I took
“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air;
I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled were
The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!
“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,
Most plainly rent by its roots alone,
A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;
“Whose gradual stress would still expand
The crevice, and topple upon the sand
The temple, while o’er its work would stand
“The tree in its living verdure!—Who
Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew
Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,
“Did more to shiver this ancient wall
Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all
The centuries, in their lapse and fall!
“Then I knelt by the riven granite there,
And my soul shook off its weight of care,
As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:
“‘The living seeds I have dropped remain
In the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”