 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
65
TRUE MOTHERHOOD.
Once while the Christ walked visibly on earth,
He took the seeming of a little child,
And trod the weary highways up and down,
A poor lost baby, crying bitterly—
His white feet bruised with pebbles, and his curls
Tear-wet and tangled all about his face,
Whose more than mortal beauty had become
Dim with much grief and crying.
He took the seeming of a little child,
And trod the weary highways up and down,
A poor lost baby, crying bitterly—
His white feet bruised with pebbles, and his curls
Tear-wet and tangled all about his face,
Whose more than mortal beauty had become
Dim with much grief and crying.
A stately lady, rich and beautiful,
Passed in her gilded chariot, and afar
Saw the poor infant, weeping as he went,
And called to him. “Why weepest thou?” she said—
“Come here and I will comfort thee, fair child!”
“I cannot come,” the grieving babe replied,
“I seek my mother.” And he wept anew,
And wandered on, still crying.
Passed in her gilded chariot, and afar
Saw the poor infant, weeping as he went,
And called to him. “Why weepest thou?” she said—
“Come here and I will comfort thee, fair child!”
“I cannot come,” the grieving babe replied,
“I seek my mother.” And he wept anew,
And wandered on, still crying.
“Sweet cherub,” said the lady, “yet come here—
I am thy mother—see, I wait for thee—
Come! thou shalt be my darling and my own,
Shalt have the daintiest broidered robes to wear,
And silken sandals on thy poor bruised feet,—
And fare most delicately every day;
I am indeed thy mother, lovely child,
Come here, and cease thy crying!”
I am thy mother—see, I wait for thee—
66
Shalt have the daintiest broidered robes to wear,
And silken sandals on thy poor bruised feet,—
And fare most delicately every day;
I am indeed thy mother, lovely child,
Come here, and cease thy crying!”
“Art thou indeed my mother?” asked the child,
Hushing his sobs a moment as he looked—
“Thy face is fair, and thou art richly clad,
And speakest sweetly—but I fear that thou
Art not indeed my mother—woe is me!
Wert thou indeed my mother, as thou saidst,
Thou wouldst not call to me and say ‘Come here!
And let me soothe thy crying!’
Hushing his sobs a moment as he looked—
“Thy face is fair, and thou art richly clad,
And speakest sweetly—but I fear that thou
Art not indeed my mother—woe is me!
Wert thou indeed my mother, as thou saidst,
Thou wouldst not call to me and say ‘Come here!
And let me soothe thy crying!’
“But thou wouldst haste to bid thy chariot stay,
Wouldst get thee down, and come and take me up,
Wouldst hold me in thy arms and comfort me,
And heal my pain. Ah, no, sweet lady, thou
Art not indeed my mother!” And he held
His mantle to his face and wept again,
And would not be entreated from his grief,
But went his way, still crying.
Wouldst get thee down, and come and take me up,
Wouldst hold me in thy arms and comfort me,
And heal my pain. Ah, no, sweet lady, thou
Art not indeed my mother!” And he held
His mantle to his face and wept again,
And would not be entreated from his grief,
But went his way, still crying.
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