 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
THE RUBY HEART
A CHILD'S STORY
Under a fragrant blossom-bell
A tiny Fairy once did dwell.
The moss was bright about her feet,
Her little face was fair and sweet,
Her form in rainbow hues was clad,
And yet the Fairy's soul was sad;
For, of the Elves that round her moved,
And in the yellow moonlight roved,
There was no Spirit that she loved.
A tiny Fairy once did dwell.
The moss was bright about her feet,
Her little face was fair and sweet,
Her form in rainbow hues was clad,
And yet the Fairy's soul was sad;
For, of the Elves that round her moved,
And in the yellow moonlight roved,
There was no Spirit that she loved.
Many a one there was, I ween,
Among the sprites that danced the green,
Whose hands were warm to clasp her own,
And voices kindly in their tone;
But love the fondest and the best
Awaked no answer in her breast:
Her heart unmoved within her slept—
And, “I can never love!” she wept.
Among the sprites that danced the green,
Whose hands were warm to clasp her own,
And voices kindly in their tone;
But love the fondest and the best
Awaked no answer in her breast:
Her heart unmoved within her slept—
And, “I can never love!” she wept.
34
She taught herself a quaint old song
And crooned it over all day long:
And crooned it over all day long:
“He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”
“But I,” she said, “can never pray,
Nor to His mansions find the way,
For he will suffer not, I know,
A creature unto Him to go
Who has not loved His world below.”
Nor to His mansions find the way,
For he will suffer not, I know,
A creature unto Him to go
Who has not loved His world below.”
Slow-wandering by the brook alone,
She chose a pure white pebble-stone,
And carved it, sitting there apart,
Into a little marble heart;
She hung it by her mossy bed—
“My heart will never love,” she said,
“Till this white stone turn ruby-red.”
She chose a pure white pebble-stone,
And carved it, sitting there apart,
Into a little marble heart;
She hung it by her mossy bed—
“My heart will never love,” she said,
“Till this white stone turn ruby-red.”
One night a moonbeam smote her face
And wakened her, and in its place
There stood an angel, full of grace.
“Dear child,” he said, “from far above
I come to teach thee how to love.
Do every day some little deed
Of kindness, some faint creature feed,
Make some hurt spirit cease to bleed,
Then carve the record fair, at night,
Upon thy heart of marble white.
Each word shall turn to ruby-red,
And so much of thy task be sped;—
For when the whole is ruddied o'er,
Thy bosom shall be cold no more;
The souls thy careless thoughts contemn
Shall win thee by thy deeds to them.”
And wakened her, and in its place
There stood an angel, full of grace.
“Dear child,” he said, “from far above
I come to teach thee how to love.
Do every day some little deed
Of kindness, some faint creature feed,
35
Then carve the record fair, at night,
Upon thy heart of marble white.
Each word shall turn to ruby-red,
And so much of thy task be sped;—
For when the whole is ruddied o'er,
Thy bosom shall be cold no more;
The souls thy careless thoughts contemn
Shall win thee by thy deeds to them.”
Upon the sorrowful Fairy broke
Like sudden sunshine this new hope.
Each day to some one's door she took
A kindly act, or word, or look,
Whose record, fairly carved at night,
Blushed out upon the stony white;
Till, somehow, wondrously there grew
More grace in every one she knew—
Each little ugliness concealed,
Each goodness more and more revealed,—
As, when you watch the twilight through,
The sky seems one pure empty blue,
Till, o'er the paling sunset bars,
Suddenly 't is one sweep of stars!
Like sudden sunshine this new hope.
Each day to some one's door she took
A kindly act, or word, or look,
Whose record, fairly carved at night,
Blushed out upon the stony white;
Till, somehow, wondrously there grew
More grace in every one she knew—
Each little ugliness concealed,
Each goodness more and more revealed,—
As, when you watch the twilight through,
The sky seems one pure empty blue,
Till, o'er the paling sunset bars,
Suddenly 't is one sweep of stars!
So day by day she found herself
Grow kindlier to each little elf:
Yea, even to the birds and bees,
And slender flowerets round her knees;
The very moss-buds at her feet
She came with warmer smile to greet,
Till now, at last, her marble heart
Was ruddy, save one little part
That gleamed all snowy as of old
In the still moonbeams, white and cold.
Grow kindlier to each little elf:
Yea, even to the birds and bees,
And slender flowerets round her knees;
36
She came with warmer smile to greet,
Till now, at last, her marble heart
Was ruddy, save one little part
That gleamed all snowy as of old
In the still moonbeams, white and cold.
Her task was almost done—she knelt,
And hid her glad wet eyes, and felt
Her soul's first prayer steal up to God,
Like Spring's first violet from the sod.
Through all her being softly stole
Such joy of gratitude, her soul
Brimmed over like a brimming cup—
And then a voice said, “Child, look up!”
And lo! the stone above her head
Was a pure ruby, starry-red;
And down among the flowers there flew,
Brushing aside the moonlit dew,
A little snowy elfin dove,
And nestled on her breast, to prove
Sweet trust in one whose heart was love.
And hid her glad wet eyes, and felt
Her soul's first prayer steal up to God,
Like Spring's first violet from the sod.
Through all her being softly stole
Such joy of gratitude, her soul
Brimmed over like a brimming cup—
And then a voice said, “Child, look up!”
And lo! the stone above her head
Was a pure ruby, starry-red;
And down among the flowers there flew,
Brushing aside the moonlit dew,
A little snowy elfin dove,
And nestled on her breast, to prove
Sweet trust in one whose heart was love.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |