Clarksville Chronicle

THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH.
BY FATHER RYAN.

In the following poem every noble heart
will recognize the cypress-crowned poet of
the South, in his finished measure. We are
deeply gratified that Father Ryan has honored us by sending it to be published, first,
in our columns.-Freeman's Journal.

My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod!
My face is wan and white with many woes,
But I will lift my poor, chained hands to God,
And for my children pray, and for my foes.

Beside the grave where thousands lowly lie.
I kneel-and weeping for each slaughter-ed son,
I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky.
And pray, oh! Father, may Thy Will be done!

My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast:
My hopes are buried with my children's dust:
My joys have fled-my tears are flowing fast:
In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust?

Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft.
When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free;
But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft,
And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee.

Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path,
I kneel-and wailing o'er my glories gone.
I still reach thought of hate, each throb of wrath
And whisper-Father! let Thy will be done.

Pity me, Father of the desolate!
Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear;
Look down in mercy on my wretched fate,
And keep me, guard me with Thy loving care.

Pity me, Father, for His holy sake,
Whose broken heart bled at the feet of Grief,
That hearts of earth, wherever they shall break,
Might go to His and find a sure relief.

Ah, me! how dark! Is this a brief eclipse?
Or is it Night, with no To-morrow's sun?
Oh! Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips
And sadder heart, I pray, Thy Will be done.

My homes are joyless, and a million mourn
where many met in joys forever flown:
Whose hearts were light, are burdened now, and lorn.
Where many smiled, but one is left to mourn.

And ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries,
Are morning hymn, and vesper chant, to me
And groans of men, and sounds of women's sighs,
Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee.

Beneath my feet-ten thousand children lie-
Oh! how I love each known and nameless one!
Above their dust I bow my crownless head,
And murmur, Father! still, Thy Will be done.

Ah! Father. Thou didst deck my own loved land
With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair
But foemen came, and with a ruthless hand.
Spread ruin, wreck and desolation here.

Girdled with gloom-of all my brightness shorn,
And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod;
And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn,
To catch one smile of pity from my God.

Around me blight, where all before was bloom!
And so much lost-alas! and nothing won!
Save this-that I can lean on wreck and tomb,
And weep-and weeping pray, Thy Will be done.

And oh! 'tis hard to say-but said, 'tis sweet
The words are bitter, but they hold a balm:
A balm that heals the wounds of my de-feat
And turns my sorrows into holy calm.

It is the prayer of Prayers-and how it brings,
When heard in Heaven, peace and hope to me;
When Jesus prayed it, did not angels' wings
Gleam mid the darkness of Gethsemane?

My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need:
Alas! their hearts have only place for tears;
Forgive them, Father, every wrongful deed.
And every sin, of those four mournful years

And give them strength to bear their boundless loss,
And from their hearts take every thought of hate:
And while they climb their Calvary with their cross
Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight.

And for my dead, my Father, may I pray?
Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more!
I keep eternal watch above their clay-
Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I im-plore

Forgive my foes-they know not what they do;
Forgive them all the tears they made me shed:
Forgive them-though my noblest sons they slew
And bless them-though they curse my poor, dear dead.

Oh! may my woes be such a carrier dove.
With wings white, that, bathing in my tears
Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love,
And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears.

Father, I kneel 'mid ruin, wreck and grave,
A desert waste, where all was erst so fair.
And for my children and my foes I crave
Pity and pardon-Father! hear my prayer.