The Poetry Corner

Luther Benson

By James Whitcomb Riley

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.