389. Thanksgiving

SOME thank Thee that they ne’er were so forsaken

In dust of death, in whirling gulfs of shame,

But by one kindred soul their part was taken,

One far-off prayer vibrated with their name!

I thank Thee too—for times no man can number,

When I went down the rayless stairs of Hell,

And to my comrades, at their feast or slumber,

The echoes cried: ‘All’s well!’

Some thank Thee for the stern and splendid vision,

Of truth, that never let them shrink or swerve!

Till on their dearest dream they poured derision,

And broke the idols they had sworn to serve!

I thank Thee that, for me, some mystic terror

Still haunts the accustomed shrine, the accustomed way,—

So, though Truth calls me with the mouth of error.

I need not disobey!

III

Some thank Thee for the Voice that sounds unbidden,

Above the altar of their sacrifice;

For that great Light wherein they stood unchidden,

And watched, reflected, in each other’s eyes.

I too—for whom came never word or token,

Whose prayer into a seeming Void descends,

I praise Thee for the trustful hush unbroken,

The right of perfect friends!