Classic Poem

A FORM not always dark but ever dread,
That sometimes haunts the holiest of all;
God's audience-room, the chamber of the dead,
He ventures here, to woo or to appall.

When the soul sits with every portal wide,
Joyful to drink the air and light of God,
This Dark One rushes through with rapid stride,
Leaving the print of evil where he trod.

Sometimes he enters like a thief at night;
And breaking in upon the stillest hour
Startles the soul to tremble with affright
Lest she be pinioned by so foul a power.

Again we see his shadow, feel his tread,
And just escape that strange and captive touch;
Perhaps, by some transfixing wonder led,
We look till drawn within his very clutch.

O valorous souls! so strong to meet the foe,
O timid souls! yet brave in flight of wing,
Secure and happy ones who seldom know
The agony this visitant can bring,

Have mercy on your brothers housed so ill,
Too weak or blinded any force to wield;
Judging their deeds, this fiend remember still. —
Christ pity those who cannot use His shield!