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Zeila (A Story from a Star)

by Abram Joseph Ryan

From the mystic sidereal spaces,

In the noon of a night 'mid of May,

Came a spirit that murmured to me --

Or was it the dream of a dream?

No! no! from the purest of places,

Where liveth the highest of races,

In an unfallen sphere far away

(And it wore Immortality's gleam)

Came a Being. Hath seen on the sea

The sheen of some silver star shimmer

'Thwart shadows that fall dim and dimmer

O'er a wave half in dream on the deep?

It shone on me thus in my sleep.

Was I sleeping? Is sleep but the closing,

In the night, of our eyes from the light?

Doth the spirit of man e'en then rest?

Or doth it not toil all the more?

When the earth-wearied frame is reposing,

Is the vision then veiled the less bright?

When the earth from our sight hath been taken,

The fetters of senses off shaken,

The soul, doth it not then awaken

To the light on Infinity's shore?

And is not its vision then best,

And truest, and farthest, and clearest?

In night, is not heaven the nearest?

Ah, me! let the day have his schemers,

Let them work on their ways as they will,

And their workings, I trow, have their worth.

But the unsleeping spirits of dreamers,

In hours when the world-voice is still,

Are building, with faith without falter,

Bright steps up to heaven's high altar,

Where lead all the aisles of the earth.

Was I sleeping? I know not -- or waking?

The body was resting, I ween;

Meseems it was o'ermuch tired

With the toils of the day that had gone;

When sudden there came the bright breaking

Of light thro' a shadowy screen;

And with the brightness there blended

The voice of the Being descended

From a star ever pure of all sin,

In music too sweet to be lyred

By the lips of the sinful and mortal.

And, oh! how the pure brightness shone!

As shines thro' the summer morn's portal

Rays golden and white as the snow,

As white as the flakes -- ah, no! whiter;

Only angelic wings may be brighter

When they flash o'er the brow of some woe

That walketh this shadowed below.

The soul loseth never its seeing,

In the goings of night and of day

It graspeth the Infinite Far.

No wonder there may come some Being,

As if it had wandered astray

At times down the wonder-filled way --

As to me in the midnight of May --

From its home in some glory-crowned star,

Where evil hath never left traces;

Where dwelleth the highest of races,

Save the angels that circle the throne,

In a grace far beyond all our graces,

Whose Christ is the same as our own.

Yea! I ween the star spaces are teeming

With the gladness of life and of love.

No! no! I am not at all dreaming --

The Below's hands enclasp the Above.

'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming --

Creation is many, tho' one,

And we are the last of its creatures.

This earth bears the sign of our sin

(From the highest the evil came in);

Yet ours are the same human features

That veiled long agone the Divine.

How comes it, O holy Creator!

That we, not the first, but the latter

Of varied and numberless beings

Springing forth in Thy loving decreeings,

That we are, of all, the most Thine?

Yea! we are the least and the lowly,

The half of our history gone,

We look up the Infinite slope

In faith, and we walk on in hope;

But think ye from here to the "Holy

Of Holies" beyond yon still sky,

O'er the stars that forever move on,

I' the heavens beyond the bright Third,

In glory's ineffable light;

Where the Father, and Spirit, and Word

Reign circled by angels all bright --

Ah! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder

There is naught but the silence of death?

There's naught of love's wish or life's wonder,

And naught but an infinite night?

No! no! the great Father is fonder

Of breathing His life-giving breath

Into beings of numberless races.

And from here on and up to His throne

The Trinity's beautiful faces,

In countlessly various traces,

Are seen in more stars than our own.

This earth telleth not half the story

Of the infinite heart of our God --

The heavens proclaim of His glory

The least little part, and His power

Broke not its sceptre when earth

Was beckoned by Him into birth.

Is He resting, I wonder, to-night?

Can He rest when His love sways His will?

Will He rest ere His glory shall fill

All spaces below and above

With beings to know and to love?

Creation -- when was it begun?

Who knows its first day? Nay, none.

And then, what ken among men

Can tell when the last work is done?

Is He resting, I wonder, to-night?

Doth He ever grow weary of giving

To Darknesses rays of His light?

Doth He ever grow weary of giving

To Nothings the rapture of living

And waiting awhile for His sight?

If His will rules His glorious power,

And if love sways His beautiful will,

Is He not, e'en in this very hour,

Going on with love's wonder-work still?

* * * * *

Let me pray just awhile, for betimes

My spirit is clouded; and then

Strange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes,

Till prayer lendeth light to my pen.

And then shall I better unfold

The story to me that was told,

Of the unfallen star far away,

In the noon of the night 'mid of May,

By the beautiful Being who came,

With the pure and the beautiful name.

"Call me Zeila," the bright spirit said,

And passed from my vision afar.

With rapture I bowed down my head,

And dreamed of that unfallen star.