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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
‘No, not a Star.’
(ANSWER TO A REMARK.)
No, not a star! that is a name too beautiful and bright
For any earthly lay to wear, in this our lingering night;
But 'mid the broken waters of our ever-restless thought,
My verse should be an answering gleam from higher radiance caught;
That when through dark o'erarching boughs of sorrow, doubt, and sin,
The glorious Star of Bethlehem upon the flood looks in,
Its tiny trembling ray may bid some downcast vision turn
To that enkindling Light, for which all earthly shadows yearn.
For any earthly lay to wear, in this our lingering night;
But 'mid the broken waters of our ever-restless thought,
My verse should be an answering gleam from higher radiance caught;
That when through dark o'erarching boughs of sorrow, doubt, and sin,
The glorious Star of Bethlehem upon the flood looks in,
Its tiny trembling ray may bid some downcast vision turn
To that enkindling Light, for which all earthly shadows yearn.
No, not a rainbow! though upon the tearful cloud it trace
Sweet messages of sparing love, of changeless truth and grace.
The daughter of its meekest hue I would my verse might prove,
The leaf-veiled violet, that wins so many a childish love;
For little hearts no wounding thorn or poison-cup to bear,
But pleasant fragrance and delight to greet them everywhere.
I grieve not though each blossom fall with swiftly ripening spring,
If o'er one eager face a smile of gladness it may fling.
Sweet messages of sparing love, of changeless truth and grace.
The daughter of its meekest hue I would my verse might prove,
The leaf-veiled violet, that wins so many a childish love;
189
But pleasant fragrance and delight to greet them everywhere.
I grieve not though each blossom fall with swiftly ripening spring,
If o'er one eager face a smile of gladness it may fling.
No, not a fountain! though it seem to spread white angelwings,
And soar aloft in spirit guise, no gentle help it brings;
It lives for its own loveliness alone, then seeks once more
The chilly bosom of the rock it slumbered in before.
Oh, be my verse a hidden stream which silently may flow
Where drooping leaf and thirsty flower in lonely valleys grow;
Till, blending with the broad bright stream of sanctified endeavour,
God's glory be its ocean home, the end it seeketh ever!
And soar aloft in spirit guise, no gentle help it brings;
It lives for its own loveliness alone, then seeks once more
The chilly bosom of the rock it slumbered in before.
Oh, be my verse a hidden stream which silently may flow
Where drooping leaf and thirsty flower in lonely valleys grow;
Till, blending with the broad bright stream of sanctified endeavour,
God's glory be its ocean home, the end it seeketh ever!
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |