"St. Francis Xavier" 
The Apostle of the Indies

He left his dust, by all the myriad tread 
Of yon dense millions trampled to the strand, 
Or 'neath some cross forgotten lays his head 
Where dark seas whiten on a lonely land: 
He left his work, what all his life had planned, 
A waning flame to flicker and to fall, 
Mid the huge myths his toil could scarce withstand, 
And the light died in temple and in hall, 
And the old twilight sank and settled over all.

He left his name, a murmur in the East, 
That dies to silence amid older creeds, 
With which he strove in vain: the fiery priest 
Of faiths less fitted to their ruder needs: 
As some lone pilgrim, with his staff and beads, 
Mid forest-brutes whom ignorance makes tame, 
He dwelt, and sowed an Eastern Church's seeds 
He reigned, a teacher and a priest of fame: 
He died and dying left a murmur and a name.

He died: and she, the Church that bade him go, 
Yon dim Enchantress with her mystic claim, 
Has ringed his forehead with her aureole-glow, 
And monkish myths, and all the whispered fame 
Of miracle, has clung about his name: 
So Rome has said: but we, what answer we 
Who in grim Indian gods and rites of shame 
O'er all the East the teacher's failure see, 
His Eastern Church a dream, his toil a vanity. 

This then we say: as Time's dark face at last 
Moveth its lips of thunder to decree 
The doom that grew through all the murmuring past 
To be the canon of the times to be: 
No child of truth or priest of progress he, 
Yet not the less a hero of his wars 
Striving to quench the light he could not see, 
And God, who knoweth all that makes and mars, 
Judges his soul unseen which throbs among the stars.

God only knows, man failing in his choice, 
How far apparent failure may succeed, 
God only knows what echo of His voice 
Lives in the cant of many a fallen creed, 
God only gives the labourer his meed 
For all the lingering influence widely spread, 
Broad branching into many a word and deed 
When dim oblivion veils the fountain-head; 
So lives and lingers on the spirit of the dead.

This then we say: let all things further rest 
And this brave life, with many thousands more, 
Be gathered up in the eternal's breast 
In that dim past his Love is bending o'er: 
Healing all shattered hopes and failure sore: 
Since he had bravely looked on death and pain 
For what he chose to worship and adore, 
Cast boldly down his life for loss or gain 
In the eternal lottery: not to be in vain.