THE DEATH OF WELFORD[1]
Out by the far west-waters,
On the sea-land of the South,
Untombed the bones of a white man lay,
Slowly crumbling to kindred clay—
Sad prayer from Death's mute mouth!
Alone, far from his people,
The sun of his life went down.
A cry for help? No time—not a prayer:
As red blood splashed thro' riven hair,
His soul rose to Heaven's throne.
Ah! well for those felon hands
Which the strong man foully slew,
The cry from the Cross when our Saviour died
"Father, forgive"—as they pierced His side—
" For they know not what they do."
They have souls, say the teachers
Hereafter, the same as we:
If so, it is hid from human grace
By blood-writ crimes of savage race
So deep, that we cannot see.
Fear than love is far stronger:
The cruel have seldom to rue:
The neck is bowed 'neath the heavy heel,
Love's covenant with Death they seal;
"For they know not what they do."
This Dead, by the far sun-down,
This man whom they idly slew,
Was lover and friend to those who had slain
With him all human love, like Cain;
But "they know not what they do."
'Twixt laws Divine and human
To judge, if we only knew,
When the blood is hot, to part wrong from right,
When to forgive and when to smite
Foes who "know not what they do."
The wronger and wronged shall meet
For judgment, to die, or live;
And the heathen shall cry, in anguish fell,
At sight of the Bottomless Pit of Hell—
"We knew not, O Lord! Forgive."
- ↑ A young Englishman, "killed by blacks on the Barcoo."