Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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I HEARD 1 the wild beasts in the woods complain; | |
Some slept, while others wakened to sustain | |
Through night and day the sad monotonous round, | |
Half savage and half pitiful the sound. | |
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The outcry rose to God through all the air, | 5 |
The worship of distress, an animal prayer, | |
Loud vehement pleadings, not unlike to those | |
Job uttered in his agony of woes. | |
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The very pauses, when they came, were rife | |
With sickening sounds of too successful strife, | 10 |
As, when the clash of battle dies away, | |
The groans of night succeed the shrieks of day. | |
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Man’s scent the untamed creatures scarce can bear, | |
As if his tainted blood defiled the air; | |
In the vast woods they fret as in a cage, | 15 |
Or fly in fear, or gnash their teeth with rage. | |
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The beasts of burden linger on their way, | |
Like slaves who will not speak when they obey; | |
Their faces, when their looks to us they raise, | |
With something of reproachful patience gaze. | 20 |
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All creatures round us seem to disapprove; | |
Their eyes discomfort us with lack of love; | |
Our very rights, with signs like these alloyed, | |
Not without sad misgivings are enjoyed. | |
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Earth seems to make a sound in places lone, | 25 |
Sleeps through the day, but wakes at night to moan, | |
Shunning our confidence, as if we were | |
A guilty burden it could hardly bear. | |
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The winds can never sing but they must wail; | |
Waters lift up sad voices in the vale; | 30 |
One mountain-hollow to another calls | |
With broken cries of plaining waterfalls. | |
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Silence itself is but a heaviness, | |
As if the earth were fainting in distress, | |
Like one who wakes at night in panic fears, | 35 |
And nought but his own beating pulses hears. | |
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Inanimate things can rise into despair; | |
And, when the thunders bellow in the air | |
Amid the mountains, Earth sends forth a cry | |
Like dying monsters in their agony. | 40 |
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The sea, unmated creature, tired and lone, | |
Makes on its desolate sands eternal moan: | |
Lakes on the calmest days are ever throbbing | |
Upon their pebbly shores with petulant sobbing. | |
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O’er the white waste, cold grimly overawes | 45 |
And hushes life beneath its merciless laws; | |
Invisible heat drops down from tropic skies, | |
And o’er the land, like an oppression, lies. | |
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The clouds in heaven their placid motions borrow | |
From the funereal tread of men in sorrow; | 50 |
Or, when they scud across the stormy day, | |
Mimic the flight of hosts in disarray. | |
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Mostly men’s many-featured faces wear | |
Looks of fixed gloom, or else of restless care; | |
The very babes, that in their cradles lie, | 55 |
Out of the depths of unknown troubles cry. | |
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Labour itself is but a sorrowful song, | |
The protest of the weak against the strong; | |
Over rough waters, and in obstinate fields, | |
And from dank mines, the same sad sound it yields. | 60 |
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O God! the fountain of perennial gladness! | |
Thy whole creation overflows with sadness; | |
Sights, sounds, are full of sorrow and alarm; | |
Even sweet scents have but a pensive charm. | |
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Doth Earth send nothing up to Thee but moans? | 65 |
Father! canst Thou find melody in groans? | |
Oh, can it be, that Thou, the God of bliss, | |
Canst feed Thy glory on a world like this? | |
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Ah me! that sin should have such chemic power | |
To turn to dross the gold of Nature’s dower, | 70 |
And straightway, of its single self, unbind | |
The eternal vision of Thy jubilant mind! | |
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Alas! of all this sorrow there is need; | |
For us Earth weeps, for us the creatures bleed: | |
Thou art content, if all this woe imparts | 75 |
The sense of exile to repentant hearts. | |
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Yes! it is well for us: from these alarms, | |
Like children scared we fly into Thine arms; | |
And pressing sorrows put our pride to rout | |
With a swift faith which has not time to doubt. | 80 |
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We cannot herd in peace with wild beasts rude; | |
We dare not live in Nature’s solitude; | |
In how few eyes of men can we behold | |
Enough of love to make us calm and bold? | |
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Oh, it is well for us: with angry glance | 85 |
Life glares at us, or looks at us askance: | |
Seek where we will,—Father! we see it now,— | |
None love us, trust us, welcome us, but Thou. | |