One moment he listened, as voices of pain
Came up from the hill-side, the valley and plain;
There were voices that pleaded, in accents of grief,
For comfort and healing, for hope and relief.
“God, help me,” he murmured, soft breathing and low,
“To heal all your anguish, ye children of woe.”
Then he folded a child to his cherishing breast,
And tenderly hushed its complainings to rest.
He kissed the pale lids of a mourner’s sad eyes,
Till she saw the fair home of her loved in the skies.
And sorrow, and anguish, and pain, and distress,
Fled away where he entered to comfort and bless.
At length came a mortal, who sought to find rest
From the hopes and the longings that strove in his breast;
For all that the world with its wealth could impart,
Had failed to bring comfort and peace to his heart.
“O, grant my petition, fair angel,” he cried.
“What wouldst thou, O mortal?” the angel replied.
“I ask not for wealth, which would make me a slave;
I ask not a name, to be lost at the grave;
I ask not for glory, for honor, or power;
Or freedom from care through my life’s little hour—
But I ask that the gift which hath made thee divine,
Of comfort, and healing, and strength, may be mine.”
Then the angel uplifted a chalice most fair,
Which seemed to be filled with a balm-breathing air,
And a chrism outpoured on the suppliant’s head,
Whose fragrance like soft wreathing incense out-*spread.
“Go forth,” said the angel, “thy mission fulfill,
With faith in the heart, which gives strength to the will.”
Then lo! in an instant the angel had flown,
And left the glad mortal in silence, alone;
But a token was given that his mission was blest,
When the dove fluttered down and reposed in his breast;
As the prophet of old let his mantle of grace
Float downward to him who should stand in his place.
O Helper! O Healer! whoever thou art,
Let love, like an angel, abide in thy heart.
Let mercy plead low for the sinful and wrong,
Let might, born of justice and right, make thee strong;
Then Help shall descend at thy call from above,
And peace in thy bosom shall rest like a dove.
TRUTH TRIUMPHANT.
O ye who dare not trust the Soul
To guide you in your heavenward way—
Who turn from its divine control,
Blind Superstition to obey—
Know that at length shall come an hour,
When darkness shall be changed to light,
And Truth, majestic in her power,
Shall vindicate her ancient right.