 | English Roses |  |
THRICE-BORN.
O thrice-bestowed by God, thou precious gift,
My daughter, in the flame
That sought but could not find a fatal rift,
Kept by the Holy Name!
At birth committed to my hungry heart,
Which flowered as from the dust;
To find it had in Heaven so rich a part,
With this exceeding trust.
And then, while flickered low the lamp of breath
Beneath the blast of ill,
Forth from the cruel hand of instant death
Drawn closer to me still.
My daughter, in the flame
That sought but could not find a fatal rift,
Kept by the Holy Name!
At birth committed to my hungry heart,
Which flowered as from the dust;
To find it had in Heaven so rich a part,
With this exceeding trust.
And then, while flickered low the lamp of breath
Beneath the blast of ill,
Forth from the cruel hand of instant death
Drawn closer to me still.
Sweet Wendeline, thrice-over thus my child,
And on an awful track
Surrendered to our God, who, as he smil'd,
Received thee and brought back!
Thine is no humble lot of human fate,
But beyond dark and doubt,
To step inside the grim eternal gate
And pass victorious out.
When skill of man was impotent, to save
The soul by fire refined;
Prayer wrote thy respite, which was by the grave
Itself then countersigned.
And on an awful track
Surrendered to our God, who, as he smil'd,
Received thee and brought back!
Thine is no humble lot of human fate,
But beyond dark and doubt,
To step inside the grim eternal gate
And pass victorious out.
When skill of man was impotent, to save
The soul by fire refined;
Prayer wrote thy respite, which was by the grave
Itself then countersigned.
And surely thou wast ever meant to make
Brighter the path of thorn,
Which all who suffer and have sinned must take,
My dearest, thou Thrice-born!
For destiny lies on that crownèd head
Whereto the shadow clings
Though now through radiant sunshine only read,
To do no common things.
Redeemed from under the dread altar knife,
Demanding lamb and dove;
Bloom of the epos of my singing life,
O thou immortal love.
Brighter the path of thorn,
Which all who suffer and have sinned must take,
My dearest, thou Thrice-born!
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Whereto the shadow clings
Though now through radiant sunshine only read,
To do no common things.
Redeemed from under the dread altar knife,
Demanding lamb and dove;
Bloom of the epos of my singing life,
O thou immortal love.
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