Boston University - HUB Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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THE CRY OF THE SOUL. 21 Anon I heard the sweet Voice again, and beginning with the last word of the poet's wail, it said : 'Bli1icl? '- If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. Again there was silence deep as the Sabbaths of Heaven. By and by the same sweet accents were heard once more : 'f 'Hard ?' 'hard to understand what way of peace may be for men born blind? ' It is not hard, Thomas, if the men born blind are only born anew -- reborn with sight. But being as you say born blind, marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. Once more silence ensued-a hush that seemed to me a sec- tion of the hour before creation's morning. Then, in accents of unutterable yearning, there came from the Voice the touching in- vitation, Come unto me thou struggling, heavy-laden spirit, I will give thee rest. The Voice ceased, and I knew the vision was ended. More- over, I knew it had not been given me without a purpose. I per- ceived that I had been commissioned to declare it, to proclaim it this day from this academic house-top. Is then this cry of a bewildered and hopeless soul the fittest subject I can bring you this glad day? Surely it would not be if my purpose were barely to intone dismal variations upon a theme so infinitely pathetic. But such is not my task. Rather is it to forestall such notes in each young life yet in the making-to give, if I may, reminders of that Amphion music of the Spirit, where- by human hearts, however heavy, however indurate and petrified, may yet be charged with life and set in life's eternal harmonies. In plainer speech, I am here to say that despite our universal heritage of blindness, despite the need our natures have of change, despite the nights of terror, days of tears, in which we fight the foes that assail our souls--despite all inward and out- ward forces that work defeat, destruction and despair, there exist for every man the possibility and the promise of a life sane and peaceful, luminous and hopeful, victorious and divine. True indeed is the sad confession of our poet that we are men born blind. No connoisseur in the higher anthropology, such as poets are, has ever ventured to deny this declaration. Self- knowledge is the first degree of wisdom, but even this is lacking.

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20 BOSTOAI ZLVIVERSITY YEAR BOOK. Yet, strike no more, for I am downg Grant me but this, to pass, and ceaseg Give to thy saints their heavenly crown, I ask but nothingness-or peace: That peace which passeth, as men say, The understanding of mankindg 'Tis hard to understand what way Of peace may be for men born blind. The words haunted me for days. I said to myself, Can it be that a man of letters, a poet, a seeker after ideals, living in such a focus of spiritual life and inspiration as ours, after sixty years of struggle for good things must confess himself left in such black- ness of darkness as this? Is it possible that this is the sole consummation and fruitage of all his strength of hope and prayer? Was it for this that, through the threescore weary years, he per- sisted through nights of terror, days of tears, to fight what foes his soul assailed? ' As I mused I seemed to be present at the place and hour of this touching utterance. I seemed to see the man himself and the hand that dashed upon the paper such tempestuous lines. Prone upon the writing table, whereon the lamentation with scarce-dried ink was lying, he had bowed his head, and as he lay I heard him moaning yet again, Lo, life hath left me wholly weakg Ev'n the small heart I always had Deserts mine age, and when I seek Strength from the cross, it drives me mad. fl' 4' ll ll' ,W lk 4' I ask but nothingness -or peace: 4- io- -or x- in Ill as- 'Tis hard to understand what way Of peace may be for men born blind. Overcome by so pitiable a spectacle I turned away 5 but as I did so I heard a Voice, a nameless, formless Voice. A sweeter I had never heard. I was glad when I noted that its words were addressed to the victim of despair. Its first utterance was, Have I been so long time with you and yet hast thou not known me, Thomas?

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i 22 BOSTON UA'lI'Eli'Sl7'l' l E.-Ui' HOOK. -On this point rollicking Robert Burns is as unflattering as john Knox : O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us. But sight, of any kind, depends not solely on the seer. The -eye indeed is human, but the light which brings it vision is cer- tainly not human. Wise and beautiful, therefore, are the words of a nobler poet, who sang: Since Nature fails us in no needful thing, Why lack I means my inward self to see? Which sight the knowledge of myself might bring, Which to true knowledge is the first degree. But as the sharpest eye diseerneth naught Except the sunheams in the air do shine, So the best soul with her reflecting thought Sees not herself without some light divine, -Sir Yohn 1Jrw1?':. Happily this light divine is ever shining. It irradiates the divine nature as marvellously as it does the human. It compasses our infant feet to show us pathway and goal. Our birthright blind- ness, therefore, is no just reason why our young souls should walk in darkness. Rather is it best of reasons why in the first glimmering dawn of spiritual consciousness, in the first faint real- ization of our native helplessness and bewilderment, we should lift our groping hands and murmur, Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom Lead Thou me ong The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on. Whoever in sincerity does this, walks a path which is as the .shining light that shinetli more and more unto the perfect day. But our theme of meditation suggests a further ground for gloom and fear. And certainly nothing can he more true to nature and to life than is our poet's pitiful picture of his fruitless struggle to transform his nature. Nevertheless, defeat is not the normal issue of this struggle in the life of man. To stop in this despair, to lie down in the Slough of Despond and die, is to miss the whole purpose and profit of that life-and-death contention. Out of the depths of this despair of self should spring a desper-