As in some half-burned forest, one by one, We catch far echoes on the doleful breeze, Born of the downfall of its ruined trees; While even thro' those which stand, slow shudderings run, As if Fate's ruthless hand were laid thereon; So, in a world sore-smitten by foul disease, -- That Pest, called Doubt -- we mark by slow degrees. The fall of many a faith that wooed the sun: Some, with low sigh of parting bough, or leaf, Strain, quivering downward to the abhorred ground; Some totter feebly, groaning toward their doom; While some broad-centuried growths of old Belief, Sapped as by fire, defeatured, charred, discrowned, Fall with a loud crash, and long reverberant boom! Thus, fated hour by hour, more gaunt and bare, Gloom the wan spaces, whence, a power to bless, Up burgeoned once, in grace or stateliness, Some creed divine, offspring of light and air; What then? and must we yield to blank despair, Beholding God Himself wax less and less, Paled in the skeptical storm-cloud's whirl and stress, Till all is lost -- love, reverence, hope, and prayer. O man! when faith succumbs, and reason reels, Before some impious, bold iconoclast, Turn to thy heart that @3reasons@1 not, but @3feels;@1 Creeds change! shrines perish! @3still (her@1 instinct saith), @3Still the soul lives, the soul must conquer Death. Hold fast to God, and God will hold thee fast!@1 |