 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
45
THE SISTINE MADONNA
She treads the unseen stair of heaven,
And softly step by step comes down;
She waits until the fall of even,
When lamps are lighting in the town;
And then her tender footsteps come
Through the remembered ways to home.
And softly step by step comes down;
She waits until the fall of even,
When lamps are lighting in the town;
And then her tender footsteps come
Through the remembered ways to home.
She bears her Babe upon her arm,
Her Babe enfolded in a dream;
Her Babe against her breast is warm;
With locks that backward wave and stream,
And eyes of deep, unearthly bliss:—
Oh, whose mysterious Child is this?
Her Babe enfolded in a dream;
Her Babe against her breast is warm;
With locks that backward wave and stream,
And eyes of deep, unearthly bliss:—
Oh, whose mysterious Child is this?
It is mine own! each Mother cries;
The lovely face come back to her,
The little kissing mouth that lies
Close to her cheek, the eager stir
Of little arms her neck around,
So glad to be at home, and found.
The lovely face come back to her,
The little kissing mouth that lies
Close to her cheek, the eager stir
Of little arms her neck around,
So glad to be at home, and found.
To every mother's heart that grieves
Over her lost, her little ones,
She carries home on Christmas Eves
The daughters missing and the sons:
Oh, they are glad to see again
The house they left in tears and pain.
Over her lost, her little ones,
She carries home on Christmas Eves
The daughters missing and the sons:
Oh, they are glad to see again
The house they left in tears and pain.
46
‘I bring you back your child I keep,
I keep in peace for each of you;
They play in daisies ankle-deep,
They sleep in beds of violets blue:
I wear for them your face and eyes,
I could not soothe them otherwise.’
I keep in peace for each of you;
They play in daisies ankle-deep,
They sleep in beds of violets blue:
I wear for them your face and eyes,
I could not soothe them otherwise.’
And yet—her deep eyes speak for her:—
‘It is my own Child that I bring:
The heart of heaven is holier;
Yet my heart still keeps pondering
On the old lowliness of earth,
The winter day, the night of birth.
‘It is my own Child that I bring:
The heart of heaven is holier;
Yet my heart still keeps pondering
On the old lowliness of earth,
The winter day, the night of birth.
The narrow cave at Bethlehem,
Its darkness and its poverty,
What were the heights of heaven to them,
That night of His nativity?
This night I come to be alone
With Him, the Child that is my own.
Its darkness and its poverty,
What were the heights of heaven to them,
That night of His nativity?
This night I come to be alone
With Him, the Child that is my own.
The throne in heaven, the great white throne,
Th'illimitable fields of light,
The glory of th'Ascended One,
The splendours of the Saints in white,
Could not console me for that first
Hour when my Babe new-born I nursed.
Th'illimitable fields of light,
The glory of th'Ascended One,
The splendours of the Saints in white,
Could not console me for that first
Hour when my Babe new-born I nursed.
Oh, heavy is a crown to wear,
Even a crown in Paradise;
I weary sometimes, set to bear
The gaze of these adoring eyes;
My wakeful heart for silence moans,
Amid the myriad music-tones.
Even a crown in Paradise;
I weary sometimes, set to bear
The gaze of these adoring eyes;
My wakeful heart for silence moans,
Amid the myriad music-tones.
47
Through singing of the Morning-Star,
Through highest heaven's triumphal hymn,
Through pealing bells from churches far,
Through voices of the Seraphim,
Pierces one small and helpless cry;—
I hear it, Joseph hears and I.
Through highest heaven's triumphal hymn,
Through pealing bells from churches far,
Through voices of the Seraphim,
Pierces one small and helpless cry;—
I hear it, Joseph hears and I.
It calls me, and I cannot stay:
For you and me the selfsame grace:—
There shall be never on Christmas Day
By mothers' hearths an empty place;
As past the stars, and past the suns,
I bear to earth the little ones.
For you and me the selfsame grace:—
There shall be never on Christmas Day
By mothers' hearths an empty place;
As past the stars, and past the suns,
I bear to earth the little ones.
Envoi
Oh, the angels carry them away,The cruel angels who never have wept
But Mary remembers all the day
The sorrowful watch by the Cross she kept.
The angels will never turn nor stay,
Nor sigh for the mother's arms bereft;
But Mary carries them all the way
When they revisit the home they left.
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