ANDREW RYKMAN 's dead and gone:
You can see his leaning slate
In the graveyard, and thereon
Read his name and date.
"Trust is truer than our fears,” Runs the legend through the moss, "Gain is not in added years,
Nor in death is loss."
Still the feet that thither trod,
All the friendly eyes are dim;
Only Nature, now, and God
Have a care for him.
There the dews of quiet fall,
Singing birds and soft winds stray:
Shall the tender Heart of All
Be less kind than they?
Andrew Rykman's Prayer.
What he was and what he is
They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his Which he left behind.
Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare
Shape in words a mortal's prayer!
Prayer, that, when my day is done,
And I see its setting sun,
Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,
Sink beneath the horizon's rim,
When this ball of rock and clay
Crumbles from my feet away,
And the solid shores of sense
Melt into the vague immense,
Father! I may come to thee
Even with the beggar's plea,
As the poorest of thy poor,
With my needs, and nothing more.
Not as one who seeks his home,
With a step assured, I come;
Still behind the tread I hear
Of my life-companion, Fear;
Still a shadow deep and vast
From my westering feet is cast,
210 Andrew Rykman's Prayer.
Wavering, doubtful, undefined,
Never shapen nor outlined:
From myself the fear has grown,
And the shadow is my own.
Well I know that all things move
To the spheral rhythm of love,-
That to thee, O Lord of all!
Nothing can of chance befall :
Child and seraph, mote and star,
Well thou knowest what we are;
Through thy vast creative plan
Looking, from the worm to man,
There is pity in thine eyes,
But no hatred nor surprise.
Not in blind caprice of will,
Not in cunning sleight of skill,
Not for show of power, was wrought
Nature's marvel in thy thought.
Never careless hand and vain
Smites these chords of joy and pain;
No immortal selfishness
Plays the game of curse and bless :
Heaven and earth are witnesses
That thy glory goodness is.
Not for sport of mind and force
Hast thou made thy universe,
But as atmosphere and zone
Of thy loving heart alone.
Andrew Rykman's Prayer. Man, who walketh in a show, Sees before him, to and fro,
Shadow and illusion
go;
All things flow and fluctuate,
Now contract and now dilate.
In the welter of this sea,
Nothing stable is but Thee;
In this whirl of swooning trance,
Thou alone art permanence;
All without thee only seems;
All beside is choice of dreams.
Never yet in darkest mood
Doubted I that thou wast good,
Nor mistook my will for fate,
Pain of sin for heavenly hate;
Never dreamed the gates of pearl
Rise from out the burning marl,
Or that good can only live
Of the bad conservative,
And through counterpoise of hell
Heaven alone be possible.
For myself alone I doubt;
All is well, I know, without;
I alone the beauty mar,
I alone the music jar.
Yet, with hands by evil stained,
And an ear by discord pained,
Andrew Rykman's Prayer.
I am groping for the keys
Of the heavenly harmonies;
Still within my heart I bear
Love for all things good and fair.
Hand of want or soul in pain
Has not sought my door in vain ;
I have kept my fealty good
· To the human brotherhood;
Scarcely have I asked in prayer
That which others might not share.
I, who hear with secret shame
Praise that paineth more than blame,
Rich alone in favors lent,
Virtuous by accident,
Doubtful where I fain would rest,
Frailest where I seem the best,
Only strong for lack of test,
What am I, that I should press
Special pleas of selfishness,
Coolly mounting into heaven
On my neighbor unforgiven?
Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised,
Comes a saint unrecognized;
Never fails my heart to greet
Noble deed with warmer beat;
Halt and maimed, I own not less
All the grace of holiness;
Nor, through shame or self-distrust,
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