Luther Benson

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY     POOR victim of that vulture curse     That hovers o'er the universe,     With ready talons quick to strike     In every human heart alike,     And cruel beak to stab and tear     In virtue's vitals everywhere, -     You need no sympathy of mine     To aid you, for a strength divine     Encircles you, and lifts you clear     Above this earthly atmosphere.     And yet I can but call you poor,     As, looking through the open door     Of your sad life, I only see     A broad landscape of misery,     And catch through mists of pitying tears     The ruins of your younger years,     I see a father's shielding arm     Thrown round you in a wild alarm -     Struck down, and powerless to free     Or aid you in your agony.     I see a happy home grow dark     And desolate - the latest spark     Of hope is passing in eclipse -     The prayer upon a mother's lips     Has fallen with her latest breath     In ashes on the lips of death -     I see a penitent who reels,     And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels,     And moans for mercy for the sake     Of that fond heart he dared to break.     And lo! as when in Galilee     A voice above the troubled sea     Commanded "Peace; be still!" the flood     That rolled in tempest-waves of blood     Within you, fell in calm so sweet     It ripples round the Saviour's feet;     And all your noble nature thrilled     With brightest hope and faith, and filled     Your thirsty soul with joy and peace     And praise to Him who gave release.