Classic Poem

( A LITANY OF THIRST )

From a lowly latitude,
Seeking Thy beatitude;
From a long-forgotten spot,
From creation's darkest blot,
Comes a sound of rushing tears.
Doth no other reach Thine ears?
Listen, Lord!

Turn Thy head! Look West — look South!
Canst Thou see the Chagres' mouth?
Yes! Look there — below it — there!
Thro' the mist that fouls the air,
Thro' malaria's noisome veil,
Hear'st Thou not the frenzied wail?
Listen, Lord!

There, beneath the starry cross —
Emblem of Thy self-planned loss!
There, where in his burning hand,
Satan clutches sea and land,
Pilgrims, fainting with despair,
Hoarsely iterate one prayer:
Listen, Lord!

Cringing, shrinking, kneeling there,
Thro' scorching night and midday glare;
Craving only that Thy grace
May assign their plea a place;
Of Thy largess asking naught
Save the boon that Dives sought:
Listen, Lord!