The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Christmas FaggotThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Christmas FaggotAuthor: Alfred GurneyRelease date: January 20, 2009 [eBook #27851]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Louise Pattison and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHRISTMAS FAGGOT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A Christmas FaggotAuthor: Alfred GurneyRelease date: January 20, 2009 [eBook #27851]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Louise Pattison and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: A Christmas Faggot
Author: Alfred Gurney
Author: Alfred Gurney
Release date: January 20, 2009 [eBook #27851]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Louise Pattison and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHRISTMAS FAGGOT ***
THAT AT THE NAME OF JESUS EVERY KNEE SHOULD BOW TO THE GLORY OF GOD THE FATHER·THAT AT THE NAME OF JESUS EVERY KNEE SHOULD BOWTO THE GLORY OF GOD THE FATHER·
BY
ALFRED GURNEY, M.A.
VICAR OF S. BARNABAS', PIMLICO
AUTHOR OF 'THE VISION OF THE EUCHARIST AND OTHER POEMS' ETC.
'The Darling of the world is come,And fit it is we finde a roomeTo welcome Him. The nobler partOf all the house here is the heart,Which we will give Him, and bequeathThis hollie and this ivie wreathTo do Him honour who's our King,The Lord of all this revelling'
'The Darling of the world is come,And fit it is we finde a roomeTo welcome Him. The nobler partOf all the house here is the heart,Which we will give Him, and bequeathThis hollie and this ivie wreathTo do Him honour who's our King,The Lord of all this revelling'
Herrick,A Christmas Carol
LONDONKEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE1884
(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved)
TOMY GODCHILDREN
ETHEL,ALBINIA,CYRIL,BASIL,BERTRAM,WILFRID,LOUISE,HELEN,
ETHEL,ALBINIA,
CYRIL,BASIL,
BERTRAM,WILFRID,
LOUISE,HELEN,
ARTHUR.
When the Angel of the watersWith a gold and silver wingGently stirred the wave baptismal,Heard ye not their carollingWho of old to Eastern shepherdsHeralded their King?To the shepherds of His peopleStill those angel-voices tellHow God's river feeds the fountainOpened by Emmanuel,Yielding the baptismal watersOf salvation's well.Children, you have passed those waters,Love-begotten from the dead;Will you make a gallant promiseWhen my verses you have read—'We will trace life's lovely riverTo the Fountain-head'?
When the Angel of the watersWith a gold and silver wingGently stirred the wave baptismal,Heard ye not their carollingWho of old to Eastern shepherdsHeralded their King?
To the shepherds of His peopleStill those angel-voices tellHow God's river feeds the fountainOpened by Emmanuel,Yielding the baptismal watersOf salvation's well.
Children, you have passed those waters,Love-begotten from the dead;Will you make a gallant promiseWhen my verses you have read—'We will trace life's lovely riverTo the Fountain-head'?
Loch Leven: 1884.
Mostof the following poems have appeared in the 'S. Barnabas' Parish Magazine.' For my godchildren and my people I have made them up into a little bundle of sticks—a Christmas faggot to feed the fires in the winter palace of our King.
It is the Incarnation that justifies all joy, and song is the expression of joy. The Gospel Songs all celebrate the Great Nativity. Birthand marriage are the occasions most sacred to mirth and music among men; and Christmas is at once the Birthday and the Marriage Festival of Humanity.
Glad and thankful shall I be if any song of mine should help to fan the flame of rejoicing love in any Christian heart at this holy and happy season.
'They bring me sorrow touched with joy,The merry merry bells of Yule.'Tennyson,In Memoriam.
'They bring me sorrow touched with joy,The merry merry bells of Yule.'
Tennyson,In Memoriam.
TheRoyal Birthday dawns again,A stricken world to bless;And sufferers forget their pain,And mourners their distress.Love sings to-day; her eyes so fairWith happy tears are wet;She is too humble to despair,Too faithful to forget.Her voice is very soft and sweet,Her heart is brave and strong;Her vassal, I would fain repeatSome fragments of her song.A Birthday-song my heart would singIts rapture to express;My Father's son must be a king,And share His consciousness.Of God's Self-knowledge comes the WordThat utters all His Thought;That Word made Flesh by all is heardWho seek as they are sought.His seeking and His finding makeOur search an easy thing;He sows good seed, and bids us takeThe joys of harvesting.Yet must His children do their part,And what He gives accept;No heart can understand His HeartThat has not bled and wept.All seasons, bring they bale or bliss,His priceless treasures hold;The Winter's silver all is His,And His the Summer's gold.Life's harvest is not reaped untilThe Christ within has grownTo perfect manhood, and self-willBy love is overthrown.Such manhood gained concludes the strifeThat makes the babe a boy;'T is thus the seed becomes a life,The life becomes a joy.The eyes that weep are eyes that see,And swift are pilgrim-feet;Ah! hope at length may come to beThan memory more sweet.So keeping festival to-day,With children's laughter near,It is not hard to sing and pray,'T is hard to doubt or fear.Father, my heart to Thee I bring,To Thee my song address;From Winter pain and toil of SpringGrows Summer happiness.
TheRoyal Birthday dawns again,A stricken world to bless;And sufferers forget their pain,And mourners their distress.
Love sings to-day; her eyes so fairWith happy tears are wet;She is too humble to despair,Too faithful to forget.
Her voice is very soft and sweet,Her heart is brave and strong;Her vassal, I would fain repeatSome fragments of her song.
A Birthday-song my heart would singIts rapture to express;My Father's son must be a king,And share His consciousness.
Of God's Self-knowledge comes the WordThat utters all His Thought;That Word made Flesh by all is heardWho seek as they are sought.
His seeking and His finding makeOur search an easy thing;He sows good seed, and bids us takeThe joys of harvesting.
Yet must His children do their part,And what He gives accept;No heart can understand His HeartThat has not bled and wept.
All seasons, bring they bale or bliss,His priceless treasures hold;The Winter's silver all is His,And His the Summer's gold.
Life's harvest is not reaped untilThe Christ within has grownTo perfect manhood, and self-willBy love is overthrown.
Such manhood gained concludes the strifeThat makes the babe a boy;'T is thus the seed becomes a life,The life becomes a joy.
The eyes that weep are eyes that see,And swift are pilgrim-feet;Ah! hope at length may come to beThan memory more sweet.
So keeping festival to-day,With children's laughter near,It is not hard to sing and pray,'T is hard to doubt or fear.
Father, my heart to Thee I bring,To Thee my song address;From Winter pain and toil of SpringGrows Summer happiness.
'The Lord Himself shall give you a sign; behold, a Virgin shall conceive and bear a Son.'
Behold, by Raphael shown, Love's sacrament!Earth's curtains part, God's veil is lifted up;There comes a Child, forth from His Bosom sentTo rule the feast of life, His Bread and Cup,His purpose making plain with man to sup.Out-streams the light, accomplished is the Sign,A Virgin-Mother clasps a Babe Divine.Her lovely feet descend the cloudy stair,Great succour bringing to a world forlorn;On either side a man and woman shareA common rapture, welcoming the dawnOf God's new day, the everlasting morn—Of such a day as shall from East to WestDispel the darkness, doing Love's behest.He turns a face all radiant to the Sun,Enamoured of the sight he looks upon;She to the end of what is now begunDowngazes, stooping, shadowed by the throneMade by a Maiden's arms, maternal grown;Than ivory most fair, than purest gold,More pure, more fair, and stronger to uphold.On cherubs twain, whom watching has made wise,A spell has fallen—a prophetic dream;Their upward-gazing and far-seeing eyes,Like stars reflected in a tranquil stream,To look beyond the Child and Mother seem;A twisted thorn-branch and a cross to themAre manifest—His throne and diadem.High heaven open stands, and there a crowdOf worshippers with love-lit eyes appear,Like stars down-gazing through a fleecy cloud,Dimly discerned as morning draweth nearSpreading a radiant pall upon night's bier.The blessed thing the Sign doth signifyThey partly know, and are made glad thereby.But more the Mother knows, and more she seesThan soaring angel or than climbing saint;Her heart familiar grown with mysteriesOf God's own working under love's constraint,The remedy she knows for man's complaint.The clouds are all beneath her, and aboveThe light of life, the radiancy of love.And He, Whom Lord of love and life we hail,Is on her bosom borne, a blossom fair;The pentecostal breath that lifts her veilHas fanned His royal brow, and stirred His hair,And kissed His lips just parted for a prayer.That spirit-wind shall blow, that Face shall shine,Till all His brothers know their Father's Sign.
Behold, by Raphael shown, Love's sacrament!Earth's curtains part, God's veil is lifted up;There comes a Child, forth from His Bosom sentTo rule the feast of life, His Bread and Cup,His purpose making plain with man to sup.Out-streams the light, accomplished is the Sign,A Virgin-Mother clasps a Babe Divine.
Her lovely feet descend the cloudy stair,Great succour bringing to a world forlorn;On either side a man and woman shareA common rapture, welcoming the dawnOf God's new day, the everlasting morn—Of such a day as shall from East to WestDispel the darkness, doing Love's behest.
He turns a face all radiant to the Sun,Enamoured of the sight he looks upon;She to the end of what is now begunDowngazes, stooping, shadowed by the throneMade by a Maiden's arms, maternal grown;Than ivory most fair, than purest gold,More pure, more fair, and stronger to uphold.
On cherubs twain, whom watching has made wise,A spell has fallen—a prophetic dream;Their upward-gazing and far-seeing eyes,Like stars reflected in a tranquil stream,To look beyond the Child and Mother seem;A twisted thorn-branch and a cross to themAre manifest—His throne and diadem.
High heaven open stands, and there a crowdOf worshippers with love-lit eyes appear,Like stars down-gazing through a fleecy cloud,Dimly discerned as morning draweth nearSpreading a radiant pall upon night's bier.The blessed thing the Sign doth signifyThey partly know, and are made glad thereby.
But more the Mother knows, and more she seesThan soaring angel or than climbing saint;Her heart familiar grown with mysteriesOf God's own working under love's constraint,The remedy she knows for man's complaint.The clouds are all beneath her, and aboveThe light of life, the radiancy of love.
And He, Whom Lord of love and life we hail,Is on her bosom borne, a blossom fair;The pentecostal breath that lifts her veilHas fanned His royal brow, and stirred His hair,And kissed His lips just parted for a prayer.That spirit-wind shall blow, that Face shall shine,Till all His brothers know their Father's Sign.
Dresden: 1883.
FOOTNOTES:[1]SeeNote A, page69.
[1]SeeNote A, page69.
[1]SeeNote A, page69.
A Picture by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.[2]
Ofold through gates that closed on themTwo exiles went with eyes downcast;The Present now retrieves the Past,God's Eden is in Bethlehem.An Eden that no walls encloseBy Mary's arms encompassèd,A living shrine, a 'house of bread,'A very haven of repose.Behold the Prince of Peace! aroundHis cradle angry tempests rage;He needs must go on pilgrimage,An exile, homeless and discrowned.And yet, His Rank to designate,The unquenched Star of BethlehemShines forth, a radiant diadem;While Angels on His footsteps wait.E'en now the Father's Face they see,A triumph-song e'en now they sing,And, wondering and worshipping,Attend His Pilgrim-Family.Two guard the frowning gateway: oneIs of a solemn countenance;To him a rapid backward glanceReveals a massacre begun.The other, forward gazing, seesThe glory of the age to come,The fruitfulness of martyrdom,Of deaths that are nativities.O weeping mothers, dry your tears!The Mother whom this canvass showsNor fears, nor weeps, although she knowsAn anguish deeper than your fears.She knows a comfort deeper stillFor all who fare on pilgrimage;By suffering from age to ageGod seals the vassals of His Will.Her Burden is upholding her;And, guided by the Holy Dove,She sees the victory of LoveBeyond the Cross and Sepulchre.To shield her, Joseph stands: his careThe shadow of God's Providence.How fragrant is the frankincenseOf their uninterrupted prayer!Through ever-open gates they press,A new and living way they tread,So gain they the true 'House of Bread,'A garden for a wilderness.A flight it seems to us; to themIt is a going forth to winThe world from Satan and from sin,And build the New Jerusalem.Lord Christ! for every seeking soulThou art Thyself the Door, the Way;All, all shall find one coming dayThy Heart their everlasting goal!
Ofold through gates that closed on themTwo exiles went with eyes downcast;The Present now retrieves the Past,God's Eden is in Bethlehem.
An Eden that no walls encloseBy Mary's arms encompassèd,A living shrine, a 'house of bread,'A very haven of repose.
Behold the Prince of Peace! aroundHis cradle angry tempests rage;He needs must go on pilgrimage,An exile, homeless and discrowned.
And yet, His Rank to designate,The unquenched Star of BethlehemShines forth, a radiant diadem;While Angels on His footsteps wait.
E'en now the Father's Face they see,A triumph-song e'en now they sing,And, wondering and worshipping,Attend His Pilgrim-Family.
Two guard the frowning gateway: oneIs of a solemn countenance;To him a rapid backward glanceReveals a massacre begun.
The other, forward gazing, seesThe glory of the age to come,The fruitfulness of martyrdom,Of deaths that are nativities.
O weeping mothers, dry your tears!The Mother whom this canvass showsNor fears, nor weeps, although she knowsAn anguish deeper than your fears.
She knows a comfort deeper stillFor all who fare on pilgrimage;By suffering from age to ageGod seals the vassals of His Will.
Her Burden is upholding her;And, guided by the Holy Dove,She sees the victory of LoveBeyond the Cross and Sepulchre.
To shield her, Joseph stands: his careThe shadow of God's Providence.How fragrant is the frankincenseOf their uninterrupted prayer!
Through ever-open gates they press,A new and living way they tread,So gain they the true 'House of Bread,'A garden for a wilderness.
A flight it seems to us; to themIt is a going forth to winThe world from Satan and from sin,And build the New Jerusalem.
Lord Christ! for every seeking soulThou art Thyself the Door, the Way;All, all shall find one coming dayThy Heart their everlasting goal!
Loch Leven: 1884.
FOOTNOTES:[2]SeeNote B, page71.
[2]SeeNote B, page71.
[2]SeeNote B, page71.
A cloisteredgarden was the placeWhere Mary grew, God's perfect flower;One, only one, discerned her grace,And visited her bower.God's choice was his; by love made strongTo guard the Mother of the King;No heart, save hers, had e'er a songSo sweet as his to sing.Yet lives there on the sacred pageNo record of a word from him;God's Ark he guards, a silent sage,Pure as the Cherubim.But sweeter than the sweetest wordRecorded of the wise and good,His silence is a music heardOn high, and understood.Blessed are all who take their partAmid the carol-singing throng;Thrice blest the meditative heartWhose silence is a song.
A cloisteredgarden was the placeWhere Mary grew, God's perfect flower;One, only one, discerned her grace,And visited her bower.
God's choice was his; by love made strongTo guard the Mother of the King;No heart, save hers, had e'er a songSo sweet as his to sing.
Yet lives there on the sacred pageNo record of a word from him;God's Ark he guards, a silent sage,Pure as the Cherubim.
But sweeter than the sweetest wordRecorded of the wise and good,His silence is a music heardOn high, and understood.
Blessed are all who take their partAmid the carol-singing throng;Thrice blest the meditative heartWhose silence is a song.
Ballachulish: 1884.
Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,May the music of your songSilence all the dark forebodingsThat have plagued the world too long;He who made your voices tunefulComes to right the wrong.Warble on, ye feathered songsters,Lift your praises loud and high,Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,In the grove and in the skyMake your music, shame our dumbness,Till we make reply.Children's laughter is a musicFlowing from a hidden spring,Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,Well is worth discovering;Slowly dies the heart that knows notHow to laugh and sing.Hark, a cradle-song! the SingerIs the Heart of God Most High;All sweet voices are the echoesThat in varied tones replyTo that Voice which through the agesSings earth's lullaby.Oftentimes a sleepless infantFor a season frets and cries:All at once an unseen fingerCurtains up the little eyes.So the cradled child He nursesGod will tranquillise.His the all-enfolding Presence;Oh, what tutelage it bringsTo the little lives that ripen'Neath the shelter of its wings;God's delays are no denials,As He waits He sings!They alone are seers and singersWho invalidate despairBy the lofty hopes they cherish,By the gallant deeds they dare,By the ceaseless aspirationsOf a life of prayer.Brothers, sisters, lift your voices,May the rapture of your songPut to flight the sad misgivingsThat have vexed the world too long;God would have us share the triumphThat shall right the wrong.
Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,May the music of your songSilence all the dark forebodingsThat have plagued the world too long;He who made your voices tunefulComes to right the wrong.
Warble on, ye feathered songsters,Lift your praises loud and high,Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,In the grove and in the skyMake your music, shame our dumbness,Till we make reply.
Children's laughter is a musicFlowing from a hidden spring,Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,Well is worth discovering;Slowly dies the heart that knows notHow to laugh and sing.
Hark, a cradle-song! the SingerIs the Heart of God Most High;All sweet voices are the echoesThat in varied tones replyTo that Voice which through the agesSings earth's lullaby.
Oftentimes a sleepless infantFor a season frets and cries:All at once an unseen fingerCurtains up the little eyes.So the cradled child He nursesGod will tranquillise.
His the all-enfolding Presence;Oh, what tutelage it bringsTo the little lives that ripen'Neath the shelter of its wings;God's delays are no denials,As He waits He sings!
They alone are seers and singersWho invalidate despairBy the lofty hopes they cherish,By the gallant deeds they dare,By the ceaseless aspirationsOf a life of prayer.
Brothers, sisters, lift your voices,May the rapture of your songPut to flight the sad misgivingsThat have vexed the world too long;God would have us share the triumphThat shall right the wrong.
Loch Laggan: 1884.
(To E. A. G.)
Behold!the world's inheritance,The treasure-trove of happy homes;Whereby the poorest hut becomesA fairy-palace of romance.A cradle is the mother's shrine:Two lamps o'erhang it—her sweet eyes,Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise,On sleeping infancy divine.The presence of a 'holy thing,'Madonna-wise, her heart discerns,And like a fragrant censer burns,O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.Her brooding motherhood is strong;A trembling joy her bosom stirs,Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers,'Magnificat' is all her song.'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails'The waking moment she awaits,The opening of two pearly gates,The lifting of two silken veils.Ah! then, what words can tell the bliss,The rapture of the fond embrace,When mother's lips on baby's face,Feast and are feasted with a kiss?And who can tell of hands and feetThe dimpled wonders, hidden charms,The dainty curves of legs and arms,So sweet and soft, so soft and sweet?This is the world's possession still,The treasure-trove of wedded hearts,Whereby a Father's love impartsHis joy, their gladness to fulfil.
Behold!the world's inheritance,The treasure-trove of happy homes;Whereby the poorest hut becomesA fairy-palace of romance.
A cradle is the mother's shrine:Two lamps o'erhang it—her sweet eyes,Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise,On sleeping infancy divine.
The presence of a 'holy thing,'Madonna-wise, her heart discerns,And like a fragrant censer burns,O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Her brooding motherhood is strong;A trembling joy her bosom stirs,Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers,'Magnificat' is all her song.
'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails'The waking moment she awaits,The opening of two pearly gates,The lifting of two silken veils.
Ah! then, what words can tell the bliss,The rapture of the fond embrace,When mother's lips on baby's face,Feast and are feasted with a kiss?
And who can tell of hands and feetThe dimpled wonders, hidden charms,The dainty curves of legs and arms,So sweet and soft, so soft and sweet?
This is the world's possession still,The treasure-trove of wedded hearts,Whereby a Father's love impartsHis joy, their gladness to fulfil.
Tyntesfield: 1884.
Allempty stands a little cradle-bed,A mother's falling tears the only sound;But not of earth her thoughts, nor underground;Up-gazing she discerns the Fountain-headOf life; the living Voice she hears that said'Fear not' to weeping women who had foundAn empty tomb, and angels watching round,Who asked 'Why seek the living with the dead?'So weeps our Mother Church—her tears outshineSun-smitten dewdrops on a summer's morn;God's rainbow girdles her, Hope's lovely sign,Whereby she knows that smiles of tears are born;Fulfilled of life herself, she would assureHer children all of death's discomfiture.
Allempty stands a little cradle-bed,A mother's falling tears the only sound;But not of earth her thoughts, nor underground;Up-gazing she discerns the Fountain-headOf life; the living Voice she hears that said'Fear not' to weeping women who had foundAn empty tomb, and angels watching round,Who asked 'Why seek the living with the dead?'So weeps our Mother Church—her tears outshineSun-smitten dewdrops on a summer's morn;God's rainbow girdles her, Hope's lovely sign,Whereby she knows that smiles of tears are born;Fulfilled of life herself, she would assureHer children all of death's discomfiture.
Carlisle: 1884.
Godgrant through coming years and daysOur beating hearts may beThe harps that celebrate His praiseWho loves eternally!No ache can be without reliefWhen Love Himself draws near;No cup can empty stand, no griefEmbitter God's New Year.Time's footsteps quickly die away,Soon emptied is his glass;We wait for an oncoming DayWhich nevermore shall pass.Old hopes revive, new hopes are born,The coming months to cheer;And phantom-fears and griefs outwornDie with the dying year.Oh, all the years and all the daysOur waiting hearts shall beHarps tremulous with His dear praiseWhose is Eternity!
Godgrant through coming years and daysOur beating hearts may beThe harps that celebrate His praiseWho loves eternally!
No ache can be without reliefWhen Love Himself draws near;No cup can empty stand, no griefEmbitter God's New Year.
Time's footsteps quickly die away,Soon emptied is his glass;We wait for an oncoming DayWhich nevermore shall pass.
Old hopes revive, new hopes are born,The coming months to cheer;And phantom-fears and griefs outwornDie with the dying year.
Oh, all the years and all the daysOur waiting hearts shall beHarps tremulous with His dear praiseWhose is Eternity!
S. Barnabas':December 31, 1883.
For the Feast of the Circumcision: New Year's Day.
Thesun methinks rose rosy-redOn that great New Year's Day,When Blood was in the cradle shedWhere Mary's Darling lay.The lark, uprising with the sun,Was silent on the wing;The nightingale, when day was done,Forgot her song to sing.A holy silence reigned around,And hushed was every voice,When in the crib the Cross was found,The Infant-Victim's choice.As moonbeam on a mountain-mereThe Mother's face was white;Her eyes were stars, and every tearGave lustre to their light.Methinks a blushing moon looked downUpon that manger-bed,And wove a mystic glory-crownAround the Sleeper's head.The silence issues in a song,It rises and it swells;E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong,Sweeter than Philomel's,His Church's anthem loud and longThe Victim's triumph tells.
Thesun methinks rose rosy-redOn that great New Year's Day,When Blood was in the cradle shedWhere Mary's Darling lay.
The lark, uprising with the sun,Was silent on the wing;The nightingale, when day was done,Forgot her song to sing.
A holy silence reigned around,And hushed was every voice,When in the crib the Cross was found,The Infant-Victim's choice.
As moonbeam on a mountain-mereThe Mother's face was white;Her eyes were stars, and every tearGave lustre to their light.
Methinks a blushing moon looked downUpon that manger-bed,And wove a mystic glory-crownAround the Sleeper's head.
The silence issues in a song,It rises and it swells;E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong,Sweeter than Philomel's,His Church's anthem loud and longThe Victim's triumph tells.
Inboyhood's sorrow-shadowed days,Which memory recalls to-day,In many moods and many ways,My yearning heart would pray.'T was holy ground where'er I setMy feet, God's shrine was everywhere;But this I scarcely knew as yet—Christ is His Father's Prayer.[3]God ever seeks His children's bliss,Appeals to them; and, rightly heard,The music of creation isThe echo of His Word.But when the child has learnt his part,The echo is an answer strong;A prayer up-springing from the heartThat blossoms in a song.Christ is the Living Word of God,His Poem and His Prophecy;The homeward way His Feet have trodMankind must travel by.And every man, God's child and priest,Is pledged to ministry divine,Who sees the Ruler of life's feastTurn water into wine;Who hears the Father's voice above,The Spirit's whispering within;Who knows the Messenger of loveThe Conqueror of sin.Responsive to God's call, our PrayerArt Thou, dear Lord, whene'er we pray;So always now, and everywhere,My heart keeps holiday.
Inboyhood's sorrow-shadowed days,Which memory recalls to-day,In many moods and many ways,My yearning heart would pray.
'T was holy ground where'er I setMy feet, God's shrine was everywhere;But this I scarcely knew as yet—Christ is His Father's Prayer.[3]
God ever seeks His children's bliss,Appeals to them; and, rightly heard,The music of creation isThe echo of His Word.
But when the child has learnt his part,The echo is an answer strong;A prayer up-springing from the heartThat blossoms in a song.
Christ is the Living Word of God,His Poem and His Prophecy;The homeward way His Feet have trodMankind must travel by.
And every man, God's child and priest,Is pledged to ministry divine,Who sees the Ruler of life's feastTurn water into wine;
Who hears the Father's voice above,The Spirit's whispering within;Who knows the Messenger of loveThe Conqueror of sin.
Responsive to God's call, our PrayerArt Thou, dear Lord, whene'er we pray;So always now, and everywhere,My heart keeps holiday.
On the Danube:Feast of the Holy Name, 1883.
FOOTNOTES:[3]SeeNote C, page72.
[3]SeeNote C, page72.
[3]SeeNote C, page72.
Islife sad for lost love's sake,Falls a blight upon thy bliss,Smiles no more their sunshine make,Lips estranged withhold their kiss?For thy consolation takeSome such song as this:—Shine on us, O Morning Star!Help our weeping eyes to see;Never may we deem things areWhat to us they seem to be;Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afarBid the shadows flee!Jesu, Thou art swift to bless,Strong to comfort, skilled to heal;Failure is with Thee success,Woe the forerunner of weal;Every stroke is a caress,Every crust a meal.Master, Thou canst raise the deadFrom the grave, the bed, the bier,[4]Souls astray, forlorn, misled,Buffeted by doubt and fear,Cannot but be comfortedWhen Thou drawest near.Sweeter than the Sunday-bellsBanishing all week-day cares,Thine the gracious voice that tellsWhat a Father's love prepares,Leading to salvation's wellsUp God's altar-stairs.Lord, Thou art the Master-singer,And Thy song is a recall;Many on life's pathway linger,Many by life's wayside fall,But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer,Is a Home for all!
Islife sad for lost love's sake,Falls a blight upon thy bliss,Smiles no more their sunshine make,Lips estranged withhold their kiss?For thy consolation takeSome such song as this:—
Shine on us, O Morning Star!Help our weeping eyes to see;Never may we deem things areWhat to us they seem to be;Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afarBid the shadows flee!
Jesu, Thou art swift to bless,Strong to comfort, skilled to heal;Failure is with Thee success,Woe the forerunner of weal;Every stroke is a caress,Every crust a meal.
Master, Thou canst raise the deadFrom the grave, the bed, the bier,[4]Souls astray, forlorn, misled,Buffeted by doubt and fear,Cannot but be comfortedWhen Thou drawest near.
Sweeter than the Sunday-bellsBanishing all week-day cares,Thine the gracious voice that tellsWhat a Father's love prepares,Leading to salvation's wellsUp God's altar-stairs.
Lord, Thou art the Master-singer,And Thy song is a recall;Many on life's pathway linger,Many by life's wayside fall,But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer,Is a Home for all!
Tyrol: 1882.
FOOTNOTES:[4]S. John xi. 43; S. Matt. ix. 25; S. Luke vii. 14.
[4]S. John xi. 43; S. Matt. ix. 25; S. Luke vii. 14.
[4]S. John xi. 43; S. Matt. ix. 25; S. Luke vii. 14.
Thepoet is the child of God,Who with anointed eyeDiscerns a sacrament of loveIn earth and sea and sky,And finds himself at love's behestConstrained to prophesy.Love is of loveliness the root,Love is of life the spring,Love is the sole interpreterOf every lovely thing:This is the burden of his song,Well may the poet sing!A joy-inspirèd song he singsBecause far off he hearsA whisper silencing the storm,A laughter through the tears,The music of eternityBeyond the dying years.His song is rapture, for he seesGod's loveliness, and we,When with his insight we are blest,Shall share his ecstasy;Oh, come the day when all shall singAs blithe a song as he!Lord Christ, Thou art the King of Love,Thou art the Poet true;The men who would Thy vision shareMust learn Thy works to do,All, all shall have the singing heartWhose feet Thy steps pursue!
Thepoet is the child of God,Who with anointed eyeDiscerns a sacrament of loveIn earth and sea and sky,And finds himself at love's behestConstrained to prophesy.
Love is of loveliness the root,Love is of life the spring,Love is the sole interpreterOf every lovely thing:This is the burden of his song,Well may the poet sing!
A joy-inspirèd song he singsBecause far off he hearsA whisper silencing the storm,A laughter through the tears,The music of eternityBeyond the dying years.
His song is rapture, for he seesGod's loveliness, and we,When with his insight we are blest,Shall share his ecstasy;Oh, come the day when all shall singAs blithe a song as he!
Lord Christ, Thou art the King of Love,Thou art the Poet true;The men who would Thy vision shareMust learn Thy works to do,All, all shall have the singing heartWhose feet Thy steps pursue!
Pitz Ortler: 1882.