For works with similar titles, see Prayer.
PRAYER.
I have a thought of one who drawing close Over her brow the sackloth, in its folds Crouched, shutting out from her refusing eyes God's gift of sunshine. While the all-pitying skies Wooed her with light she would not look upon, While earth entreated her, and passing winds Plucked at her garments, and around her flung Invisible arms, light, urgent, clasping arms,Her heart made answer:—I have lain so long On thy cold breast. Despair, did I arise I should reel wildly, staggering with cramped limbs Through the white, glaring sunshine. Hide me, night! Lest the full glories of the universe Smite me with blindness, and exulting earth Under the blue triumphal arch of heaven Victoriously passing, blast my sense With her insulting gladness. Once I prayed; Once when dismay, want, death, pressed me so close, I faced them in mere madness, and beholding, From mine appalled soul sent up a shriek That must have pierced the hollow ear of space, Startling the angels, holding in suspense Awhile the eternal harmonies. Vain heart! Could the mute prayer that on its fiery track Followed in trembling haste, prevail so far? Amid the roll of twice ten thousand harps Struck by white-handed seraphim, the voice Of that unfathomed sea of human woe Making perpetual moan about His throne, And surging to His footstool, dost thou dream That its weak cry rose audibly? That its weak cry rose audibly?Did sleep On her imploring senses lightly rest His hand in benediction? The still air To her astonished gaze grew all instinct, Moted with airy forms for ever drawn Up, by some genial influence. With bent heads, With hands clasped mutely, and looks downward dropt, Else searching space, onward they pressed, and drew Her rapt soul with them. Tears and sighs fell thick, Mixed with low broken murmurs, and a sound,Distinct, of music that flowed clearly on,Like a glad singing stream that lifts its voice Amid the mourning of sere autumn boughs Bent with wet leaves and rain. The dense, dull air, As 'twere a vail, they parted, and it lay Above the earth like the dusk cloud that hangs Over some populous mart. And upward still Through that black space, of which the hue of night Is a pale mock! And she who fled with them,Whither, she questioned not, from that great height Back glancing, saw the universe as one Who, looking from a mountain top, beholds Faint clustering lights, that, twinkling through the gloom, Mark where a city stands. And upward still!
Till through the cloaking dark a sword of light Flashed suddenly. Then over and around, There shined the brightness of ten thousand suns All concentrate, and her scared spirit stood In the full courts of heaven! She might not look On its great glory, but the Seraphim That leant upon their harps, forever there Turned with bright solemn faces, lost, transfused Into one rapturous thought. She only saw How all the assembled prayers of all the worlds Entreated, silent. Various their guise; Some with pure eyes uplift, that dared to look Straight on Divinity, and some with dust On their pale foreheads. There were infant prayers Crowned with faint halos; saintly prayers, that might, But for some traces of forgotten tears,Have swelled the ranks of Heaven. While yet she looked,On the pale shore of light there stood a Form Forlorn, close mantled, that with tottering steps Drew nearer. Hers! she knew it well! her heart Shrank with a deadly fear. Oh God! the prayer That on the steps of the mad shriek that bore Woe, horror, and defiance up to Heaven, Followed with faint entreaty! That weak cry, That mute despairing thing that from her heart Scarce struggled to her lips, and there fell prone As one across a threshold! Staggering on With its pale hands uplift, closer it drew; And, while she looked to see it thrust without Into surrounding darkness, rapt and calm Stood the ranked angels. Near, oh God, it came! Then with the mien of her who touched His robe When the crowd pressed Him, springing to the throne, With a low cry fell prostrate!With a low cry fell prostrate!In their sheaths Why slept the keen swords of the cherubim? Lo, every knee was bowed! round every brow There bloomed fresh amaranth, from every lip Burst such transcendent melody, the stars Grew musical with its echoes, and dull earth Dreamed of it in her slumber. Last of all Rose that pale Form, and east the mantle back, And drank in the pure light with steadfast eyes, And showed God's seal, that, stamped upon its brow, Burned like a star. Burned like a star.There was great joy in Heaven.