384. The Hunters

‘The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may devour.’

THE LION, he prowleth far and near,

Nor swerves for pain or rue;

He heedeth nought of sloth nor fear,

He prowleth—prowleth through

The silent glade and the weary street,

In the empty dark and the full noon heat;

And a little Lamb with aching Feet—

He prowleth too.

The Lion croucheth alert, apart—

With patience doth he woo;

He waiteth long by the shuttered heart,

And the Lamb—He waiteth too.

Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill,

Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue,

The Lion followeth the fainting will—

And the Lamb—He followeth too.

From the thickets dim of the hidden way

Where the debts of Hell accrue,

The Lion leapeth upon his prey:

But the Lamb—He leapeth too.

Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn,

Mark Devil and God as goals,

In the panting love of a famished Lamb,

Gone mad with the need of souls.

The Lion, he strayeth near and far;

What heights hath he left untrod?

He crawleth nigh to the purest star,

On the trail of the saints of God.

And throughout the darkness of things unclean,

In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood,

There prowleth ever with yearning mien—

A Lamb as white as Blood!