Horizons and landmarks

by Sidney Royse Lysaght

All is the same, all but ourselves, and we!
Do our eyes fail or but too clearly see?
For we remember how our hearts leapt up
With each new day that dawned upon the earth.
Was it then but a vision we beheld,
And but our youthful spirits that out-welled,
That now the fountain is an unfilled cup,
And where we looked for harvest there is dearth?

We know not when our faith began to wane,
Or whether ’twas the sight of wrong and pain,
The knowledge of a world wherein the strong
Preyed on the weak, that wakened our distrust;
Whether it was the torture that we saw,
Dealt in obedience to Nature’s law,
That made us ask if such a world of wrong
From dust evolved should not return to dust.

Was God, we asked, the shaper of that plan
Of brutal strife from which the soul of man
Emerged? could man, a creature born of earth,
Find beyond earth a place to house his soul?
Or was it all a pattern chance had traced,
A pattern that would be again erased;
Were strife, and wrong, and love, and death, and birth,
But motions of a force without a goal?

Give us, we cry, a pilgrimage of pain,
However long, so it be not in vain!
Show us a task, however desperate,
So that our labour be not all for nought!
We would not mourn a lot, however hard,
If we were sure we had a trust to guard;
We could fight on, careless of our own fate,
If we were sure that not in vain we fought.

But we have looked upon the ants and bees,
And asked ourselves if we be more than these,
Who haply find their sunlit hours sweet,
And for their common weal their lives lay down.
We! we who claim to be the Lord’s elect;
We! we the vile, the outcast, and the wrecked;
We! the gay rabble of a Paris street;
We! the low millions of a Chinese town.

Then, in disdain of all the shame and strife,
We wish no more to be a part of life.
The vital force that we miscalled a soul
Ebbs, and our feet grow weary; we would rest.
Since toil and sacrifice can but avail
To nurse a hope that in the end must fail,
Better, we cry, the graveyard for a goal
Than any further hopeless, aimless quest.
. . . . .
Now is the test of faith: there was no room
For faith when life put forth its vernal bloom,
And brave adventures promised to fulfil
Our dreams, and danger made us long to prove
Our fighting strength; but now that we have spent
Our treasure and beheld our punishment,
Oh! now, when we already feel the chill
Of death, and hear the passing bell of love,

Now while the laws no deeds nor prayers can move
Bear witness against all we long to prove,
Now is the test of faith:—still to be true
To those great purposes our dreams have shown;
And, as a son defends a mother’s name
Although a thousand voices cry her shame,
Because he knows the heart they never knew,
Still, still to trust the life whence springs our own.

We have beheld the evil and the good,
And know, ourselves, the strength of wrong withstood.
May it not be that God is everywhere
Striving Himself against eternal wrong?
May it not be that on that battle-field
He needs the help of those His love would shield?
May not His arm be bound by our despair?
May not our courage help to make it strong?

Come! ere strength fail us, be it ours to guard
That good which now can be upheld or marred,—
Tending, it may be, in our earth-born dust,
The mortal seed of some immortal bloom.
Come! can we dare to pause or hesitate
When we may be the conquerors of fate,—
When fighting on God’s side for life’s great trust
Our victory may break the bonds of doom?

And if no hope appears, yet having seen
Dreams of what should be and what might have been,—
If as a crippled battle-ship that sinks,
Flying her fighting colours to the fleet,
We face the end,—is there no fountain-head
Of strength divine from which such strength is fed?
Must not our lives be bound with unseen links
To some great heart that cannot know defeat.