For dangers uncounted are clustering there,
The pestilence stalks uncontrolled,

Strange poisons are borne on the soft, languid air,
And lurk in each leaf's fragrant fold.

There the rose never blooms on fair woman's wan cheek,

But there's beautiful light in her eye,

And the smile that she wears is so loving and meek,

None can doubt it came down from the sky.

There the strong man is bowed in his youth's golden prime,

But he cheerily sings at his toil,

For he thinks of his sheaves, and the garnering time

Of the glorious Lord of the soil.

And ever they turn, that brave, wan little band, A long, wistful gaze on the West:

"Do they come, do they come from that dear distant land,

That land of the lovely and blest?

"Do they come? Do they come? Oh! we're feeble and wan,

And we 're passing like shadows away;

But the harvest is white, and lo! yonder the dawn! for laborers, we pray!"

For laborers,

HENRY MARTYN AT SHIRAZ.

193

HENRY MARTYN AT SHIRAZ.

HENRY ALFORD.

A VISION of the bright Shiraz, of Persian bards the theme:

The vine with bunches laden hangs o'er the crystal stream,

The nightingale all day her notes in rosy thickets trills,

And the brooding heat-mist faintly lies along the distant hills.

About the plain are scattered wide, in many a crumbling heap,

The fanes of other days, and tombs where Iran's poets sleep.

And in the midst, like burnished gems in noonday light, repose

The minarets of bright Shiraz, the city of the rose.

One group beside the river bank in rapt discourse

are seen,

Where hangs the golden orange on its boughs of purest green;

Their words are sweet and low, and their looks are lit with joy;

Some holy blessing seems to rest on them and their employ.

The pale-faced Frank among them sits; what brought him from afar?

Nor bears he bales of merchandise, nor teaches skill in war;

One pearl alone he brings with him, the Book of life and death;

One warfare only teaches he, to fight the fight of faith.

And Iran's sons are round him; and one with solemn tone

Tells how the Lord of glory was rejected by his

own,

Tells, from the wondrous Gospel, of the trial and the doom,

The words divine of love and might, the scourge, the cross, the tomb.

Far sweeter to the stranger's ear those Eastern accents sound

Than music of the nightingale, that fills the air around;

Lovelier than balmiest odors sent from gardens of the rose,

The fragrance from the contrite soul and chastened lip that flows.

The nightingales have ceased to sing, the rose's leaves are shed,

The Frank's pale face in Tocat's field hath mouldered with the dead;

HENRY MARTYN AT SHIRAZ.

195

Alone and all unfriended, 'midst his Master's work

he fell,

With none to bathe his fevered brow, with none his tale to tell.

But still those sweet and solemn tones about him sound in bliss;

And fragrance from those flowers of God for evermore is his;

For his the meed, by grace, of those who, rich in zeal and love,

Turn many unto righteousness, and shine as stars above.

PART VI.

PENITENCE.

DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI.

C. G. FENNER.

Up from the deeps, O God, I cry to thee!
Hear the soul's prayer, hear thou her litany,
O thou who say'st, "Come, wanderer, home to
me!"

Up from the deeps of sorrow, wherein lie
Dark secrets veiled from earth's unpitying eye,
My prayers, like star-crowned angels, God-ward

fly.

Up from the deeps of joy, deep tides that swell With fulness that the heart can never tell, Thanks shall ring clear as rings a festal bell.