My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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| AN ORPHAN FAMILY'S CHRISTMAS. |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
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AN ORPHAN FAMILY'S CHRISTMAS.
I.
A blithe old Carle is Christmas;
You cannot find his fellow;
Match me the hale red rose in his cheek,
Or the heart so mild and mellow;
The glitter of glory in his eyes,
While the Wassail-cup he quaffs,
Or the humour that twinkles out of his wrinkles
As helplessly he laughs.
You cannot find his fellow;
Match me the hale red rose in his cheek,
Or the heart so mild and mellow;
The glitter of glory in his eyes,
While the Wassail-cup he quaffs,
Or the humour that twinkles out of his wrinkles
As helplessly he laughs.
Of all High-Tides 'tis Christmas
Most richly crowns the year;
Right through to land there ripples and runs
Its flood of merry good cheer.
Troops of friends come sailing down,
Making a pleasant din;
Fling open doors! set wide your hearts!
'Tis Christmas coming in.
Most richly crowns the year;
Right through to land there ripples and runs
Its flood of merry good cheer.
Troops of friends come sailing down,
Making a pleasant din;
Fling open doors! set wide your hearts!
'Tis Christmas coming in.
A glorious time is Christmas,
We gather all at home,
And like the Christmas fairies,
With their pranks, our darlings come;
And gentle Sylvan Spirits hid
In holly-boughs they bring,
To grow into good Angels,
And bless our fairy-ring!
We gather all at home,
And like the Christmas fairies,
With their pranks, our darlings come;
And gentle Sylvan Spirits hid
In holly-boughs they bring,
To grow into good Angels,
And bless our fairy-ring!
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A jolly time is Christmas,
For Plenty's horn is poured;
Then flows the honey of the Sun,
Our fruits all summer hoard!
Merry men tall march up the hall:
They bear the meats and drinks;
And Wine, with all his hundred eyes,
Your hearty welcome winks.
For Plenty's horn is poured;
Then flows the honey of the Sun,
Our fruits all summer hoard!
Merry men tall march up the hall:
They bear the meats and drinks;
And Wine, with all his hundred eyes,
Your hearty welcome winks.
And O the Fire of Christmas,
That like some Norse God old,
Mounts his log up chimney, and roars
Defiance to the cold!
He challenges all out-of-doors:
He wags his beard of flame;
It warms your very heart to see
Him glory in the game.
That like some Norse God old,
Mounts his log up chimney, and roars
Defiance to the cold!
He challenges all out-of-doors:
He wags his beard of flame;
It warms your very heart to see
Him glory in the game.
A happy time is Christmas;
Young hearts will slip the tether;
Lips moist and merry, all under the berry,
Close thrillingly together.
A gracious time! the poorest Poor
Will make some little show,
And ailing infants, seeing the fun,
Will do their best to crow!
Young hearts will slip the tether;
Lips moist and merry, all under the berry,
Close thrillingly together.
A gracious time! the poorest Poor
Will make some little show,
And ailing infants, seeing the fun,
Will do their best to crow!
II.
But there are nooks in Poverty's dim world,
Where the high tide of bounty never runs.
No drop of all its wealth for some who sit
And hear the river of riches brimming by.
They see the Christmas shows of wealth and warmth,
At window, whilst shut out at every door!
The Plenty only flouts their poverty;
The music mocks them with its merriment;
They look into each passing face and find
No likeness of their own deep misery.
Where the high tide of bounty never runs.
No drop of all its wealth for some who sit
And hear the river of riches brimming by.
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At window, whilst shut out at every door!
The Plenty only flouts their poverty;
The music mocks them with its merriment;
They look into each passing face and find
No likeness of their own deep misery.
In one of these dark nooks, at Christmas time,
An Orphan family, with little fire,
And only light enough to see the gloom,
Together sat; two Sisters and one Brother;
The youngest six years old; the eldest twelve;
An old Grandfather lying ill a-bed.
They knew that Christmas came, but not for them.
Thus had they often sat o' winter nights,
Shivering within, as darkness shuddered without,
And creeping close together for heart-warmth;
Poor unfledged nurslings with the Mother gone!
Feeling a Presence brooding over them,
In whose chill shadow they were pall'd and hooded;
So mournfully it kept the Mother's place!
Till flesh would creep as though about to leave
The spirit naked—bare to the cold breath
That whispers of the grave—all lidless eye
To that appalling sight the helpless Dead
Lie looking on, in their amazement, dumb,
And petrified to marble! So they sat;
The Shadow in the house and on the heart;
The old Clock ticking through the lonely room,
With sounds that make the silence solemner,
And weird hands pointing to far other times;
Talking of merry Christmas coming in;
Of visionary futures, and old days,
With thoughts so far beyond their years! The life
In their young eyes gleamed preternaturally,
Betwixt the fire-shine, and the dim night-shadows,
As their old inmates of the heart stole forth
To people the old ways they walked once more.
And so, like those lorn pretty Babes i' the Wood,
That Robins buried when the talk was done,
They told each other stories; sang their Hymns;
By way of bribing the gaunt Solitude,
Not to look down upon them quite so grim!
Poor darlings, with no Father, and no Mother.
An Orphan family, with little fire,
And only light enough to see the gloom,
Together sat; two Sisters and one Brother;
The youngest six years old; the eldest twelve;
An old Grandfather lying ill a-bed.
They knew that Christmas came, but not for them.
Thus had they often sat o' winter nights,
Shivering within, as darkness shuddered without,
And creeping close together for heart-warmth;
Poor unfledged nurslings with the Mother gone!
Feeling a Presence brooding over them,
In whose chill shadow they were pall'd and hooded;
So mournfully it kept the Mother's place!
Till flesh would creep as though about to leave
The spirit naked—bare to the cold breath
That whispers of the grave—all lidless eye
To that appalling sight the helpless Dead
Lie looking on, in their amazement, dumb,
And petrified to marble! So they sat;
The Shadow in the house and on the heart;
The old Clock ticking through the lonely room,
With sounds that make the silence solemner,
And weird hands pointing to far other times;
Talking of merry Christmas coming in;
Of visionary futures, and old days,
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In their young eyes gleamed preternaturally,
Betwixt the fire-shine, and the dim night-shadows,
As their old inmates of the heart stole forth
To people the old ways they walked once more.
And so, like those lorn pretty Babes i' the Wood,
That Robins buried when the talk was done,
They told each other stories; sang their Hymns;
By way of bribing the gaunt Solitude,
Not to look down upon them quite so grim!
Poor darlings, with no Father, and no Mother.
III.
Ay me, dear Sister, gentle Brother,
How soft the thought of a Mother lies
At heart; how sweet in sound 'twill rise;
And these poor Children had no Mother!
How soft the thought of a Mother lies
At heart; how sweet in sound 'twill rise;
And these poor Children had no Mother!
No Mother-arms in secret nook
To fold the sufferer to her breast,
With love that never breaks its rest,
And Heartsease in her very look.
To fold the sufferer to her breast,
With love that never breaks its rest,
And Heartsease in her very look.
No Mother-wings to brood above
The winter nest and keep them warm;
And shield them from the pitiless storm,
With the large shelter of her love.
The winter nest and keep them warm;
And shield them from the pitiless storm,
With the large shelter of her love.
No Mother's tender touch that brings
A music from the harp of life,
Like hovering heaven above the strife
And precious trembling of the strings.
A music from the harp of life,
Like hovering heaven above the strife
And precious trembling of the strings.
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No Mother with her lap of love
Each night for heads that bow in prayer;
Dear hands that stroke the smiling hair,
And heart that pleads their cause above.
Each night for heads that bow in prayer;
Dear hands that stroke the smiling hair,
And heart that pleads their cause above.
No Mother whose quick, wistful eye
Will see the shadow of Danger near,
And face, with love that casts out fear,
The blow that darkly hurtles by.
Will see the shadow of Danger near,
And face, with love that casts out fear,
The blow that darkly hurtles by.
No Mother's smile ineffable,
To stir the Angel in the bud,
Till, into perfect womanhood,
The Flower blushes at the full.
To stir the Angel in the bud,
Till, into perfect womanhood,
The Flower blushes at the full.
No Mother! when the Darling One
Bends with a grief that breaks the flower,
To loose the sorrow in a shower,
And lift the sweet face to the sun.
Bends with a grief that breaks the flower,
To loose the sorrow in a shower,
And lift the sweet face to the sun.
No Mother's kiss of comfort near
The River that Death overshades;
Or voice that, when the dim face fades,
Sounds on with words of solemn cheer.
The River that Death overshades;
Or voice that, when the dim face fades,
Sounds on with words of solemn cheer.
Ay me, dear Sister, gentle Brother,
How soft the thought of a Mother lies
At heart; how sweet in sound 'twill rise;
And these poor Children had no Mother.
How soft the thought of a Mother lies
At heart; how sweet in sound 'twill rise;
And these poor Children had no Mother.
IV.
Yet, God is kind; His ways are Fatherly.
Affliction's hand, it seem'd, had, at a touch,
Awoke the Mother in the young Child-heart
Of little Martha, who had now become
A wee old woman at twelve years of age,
With many Motherly ways. Yea, God is kind.
Affliction's hand, it seem'd, had, at a touch,
Awoke the Mother in the young Child-heart
Of little Martha, who had now become
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With many Motherly ways. Yea, God is kind.
The tiny Snowdrop braves the wintry blast;
He tenderly protects its confidence
That lifts the venturous head, safe in His hand:
And Martha, in her loneliness of earth,
And such a dearth of human fellowship,
And such companionship with solitude,
Had found a way of looking up to Heaven:
And oft I think that God in heaven smiled;
Holding His hand about her little life,
As one that shields a candle from the wind.
She had the faith to feel Him nearest, when
The world is farthest off; and, in this faith,
Her spirit went on wings, or, hand-in-hand
With Love that digs below the deepest grave,
And Hope that builds above the highest stars.
He tenderly protects its confidence
That lifts the venturous head, safe in His hand:
And Martha, in her loneliness of earth,
And such a dearth of human fellowship,
And such companionship with solitude,
Had found a way of looking up to Heaven:
And oft I think that God in heaven smiled;
Holding His hand about her little life,
As one that shields a candle from the wind.
She had the faith to feel Him nearest, when
The world is farthest off; and, in this faith,
Her spirit went on wings, or, hand-in-hand
With Love that digs below the deepest grave,
And Hope that builds above the highest stars.
In the old days before their sorrow came,
And vast Eternity oped twice to them,
And each time, following the lightning-flash,
They groped in darkness for a Parent gone,
She was the merriest of merry souls;
The gay heart laughing in her loving eyes;
The peeping rose-bud crimsoning her cheek;
There was as quick a spirit in her feet,
As now had passed into her toiling fingers,
That match the Mother's heart with Father's hands
In their unwearied working for the rest.
In those old days the Father made a song
About his little maid, and sang it to her.
And vast Eternity oped twice to them,
And each time, following the lightning-flash,
They groped in darkness for a Parent gone,
She was the merriest of merry souls;
The gay heart laughing in her loving eyes;
The peeping rose-bud crimsoning her cheek;
There was as quick a spirit in her feet,
As now had passed into her toiling fingers,
That match the Mother's heart with Father's hands
In their unwearied working for the rest.
In those old days the Father made a song
About his little maid, and sang it to her.
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V.
“
It
is a merry Maiden,
With spirits light as air;
While others go heart-laden,
And make the most of care,
She trips along with laughter:
Old Care may hobble after.
With spirits light as air;
While others go heart-laden,
And make the most of care,
She trips along with laughter:
Old Care may hobble after.
“A sunbeam straight from heaven
She dances in my room;
The gladdest thing e'er given
To cheer a heart or home:
My stream of life may darkle,
She makes the brighter sparkle.
She dances in my room;
The gladdest thing e'er given
To cheer a heart or home:
My stream of life may darkle,
She makes the brighter sparkle.
“Her smile it is the Morning
That turns the mist to pearls;
All thought of sadness scorning,
She shakes her sunny curls;
And, with her merry glancing,
She sets all hearts a-dancing.”
That turns the mist to pearls;
All thought of sadness scorning,
She shakes her sunny curls;
And, with her merry glancing,
She sets all hearts a-dancing.”
VI.
But now the Maid was changed, for she had been
With Sorrow in its chilly sanctuary;
Her look was paler, for it had been touched
With that white stillness of the winding-sheet,
That smile forlornly sweet upon the face
When left forever widowed of the soul.
Henceforth her life went softly all its days
As if she felt the Grave-turf underfoot.
Her beauty was more spiritual; not aged
Or worn; less colour, but more light.
It was a brier-rose beauty, tremulous
With tenderest dew-drop purity of soul.
With Sorrow in its chilly sanctuary;
Her look was paler, for it had been touched
With that white stillness of the winding-sheet,
That smile forlornly sweet upon the face
When left forever widowed of the soul.
Henceforth her life went softly all its days
As if she felt the Grave-turf underfoot.
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Or worn; less colour, but more light.
It was a brier-rose beauty, tremulous
With tenderest dew-drop purity of soul.
I've often seen how well their favour wears
Whose sufferings are for others, not for Self;
How long they keep a fair unfurrowed face,
Whose tears are luminous with healing love,—
The pearly cars that bring good spirits down
To water and enrich their special flowers,—
And do not come from cares that kill the heart;
These sere no bloom; they leave no snaky trail.
So Martha kept her face, and might have been
The younger sister of that lily Maid,
The lovable Elaine of Astolat.
Whose sufferings are for others, not for Self;
How long they keep a fair unfurrowed face,
Whose tears are luminous with healing love,—
The pearly cars that bring good spirits down
To water and enrich their special flowers,—
And do not come from cares that kill the heart;
These sere no bloom; they leave no snaky trail.
So Martha kept her face, and might have been
The younger sister of that lily Maid,
The lovable Elaine of Astolat.
VII.
We write the tale of Heroes in the blood
They shed when dying where they nobly stood;
And the red letters gloriously bloom
To light the warrior to a loftier doom.
But there are battles where no cheers arise,
And no flags wave before the fading eyes;
Heroes of whom the wide world never hears;
Their story only writ in Woman's tears.
Yet that invisible ink shall surely shine
Brightest in Heaven, and verily divine.
And when God closes our world's blotted book,
To cast it in the fire with awful look,
It was so badly written, leaf on leaf
Thus lived might touch the Father's heart with grief.
And this Child-Mother's life may yield one story
That shall be told among the first in glory.
They shed when dying where they nobly stood;
And the red letters gloriously bloom
To light the warrior to a loftier doom.
But there are battles where no cheers arise,
And no flags wave before the fading eyes;
Heroes of whom the wide world never hears;
Their story only writ in Woman's tears.
Yet that invisible ink shall surely shine
Brightest in Heaven, and verily divine.
And when God closes our world's blotted book,
To cast it in the fire with awful look,
It was so badly written, leaf on leaf
Thus lived might touch the Father's heart with grief.
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That shall be told among the first in glory.
Her busy love and thoughtful care are such,
The others do not miss the Mother much.
From dawn to dark her presence lights the place
With many a gleam of reliquary grace.
Their few poor things in seemly order stand,
Bright as with last touch of the Parent's hand.
The clothes are mended, and the house is kept
Clean as of old; bravely hath Martha stepped
In Mother's footprints; her wee feet have tried
Their best to track the Parent's larger stride.
With household work her little hands are hard,
Her arms are chilled, her knees with kneeling scarred:
Dusty her hair that might have richly rolled
With warm Venetian glow of Titian's gold.
Great-hearted little woman; she toils still,
Though the Grandfather, lying old and ill,
To her twin troubles adds a heavier third,
She works on without one complaining word.
The others do not miss the Mother much.
From dawn to dark her presence lights the place
With many a gleam of reliquary grace.
Their few poor things in seemly order stand,
Bright as with last touch of the Parent's hand.
The clothes are mended, and the house is kept
Clean as of old; bravely hath Martha stepped
In Mother's footprints; her wee feet have tried
Their best to track the Parent's larger stride.
With household work her little hands are hard,
Her arms are chilled, her knees with kneeling scarred:
Dusty her hair that might have richly rolled
With warm Venetian glow of Titian's gold.
Great-hearted little woman; she toils still,
Though the Grandfather, lying old and ill,
To her twin troubles adds a heavier third,
She works on without one complaining word.
VIII.
And once a year she has her Holiday;
One day of airy life in fairyland,
When young leaves open large their palms to catch
The gold and silver of the sun and shower;
Shy Beauty pusheth back her glittering hood,
To peep with her flower face; the Silver Birk
Shakes out her hair full-length against the blue;
The Fir puts forth her timid finger-tips,
Like shrinking damsel trying a cold stream
In which she comes to bathe.
One day of airy life in fairyland,
When young leaves open large their palms to catch
The gold and silver of the sun and shower;
Shy Beauty pusheth back her glittering hood,
To peep with her flower face; the Silver Birk
Shakes out her hair full-length against the blue;
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Like shrinking damsel trying a cold stream
In which she comes to bathe.
In merry green woods
She rambles where the blue wild hyacinths
Smile with their soft dream-haze in tender shade:
The lightsome dance of gladsome green above;
The whispering sweetness of the wood below;
Birds singing, as for love of her, all round:
Or, by the Brook that turns some stray sunbeam
To a crooked scimitar of wavy gold,
Then to itself laughs at the elvish work!
With her large eyes, and eager leaping looks,
She pores o'er Nature's living picture-page,
And gets some colour in her own pale life.
Then home, with kindled cheek, when Eve's one Star
Stands, waiting on the threshold of the night,
In lively expectation of all heaven.
She rambles where the blue wild hyacinths
Smile with their soft dream-haze in tender shade:
The lightsome dance of gladsome green above;
The whispering sweetness of the wood below;
Birds singing, as for love of her, all round:
Or, by the Brook that turns some stray sunbeam
To a crooked scimitar of wavy gold,
Then to itself laughs at the elvish work!
With her large eyes, and eager leaping looks,
She pores o'er Nature's living picture-page,
And gets some colour in her own pale life.
Then home, with kindled cheek, when Eve's one Star
Stands, waiting on the threshold of the night,
In lively expectation of all heaven.
IX.
Home when the happy day is done,
Home comes my little Maid;
Her pleasure—golden in the sun—
Now dewy in the shade.
Thoughts of the day will hover and bless
Her sleep with sacred balminess.
Home comes my little Maid;
Her pleasure—golden in the sun—
Now dewy in the shade.
Thoughts of the day will hover and bless
Her sleep with sacred balminess.
Through shutting eve the stars will peep,
But still there comes no night;
'Tis but the Day hath fallen asleep
And smiles in dreams of light.
And Martha feels the heart of Love
Beat on in silent stars above.
But still there comes no night;
'Tis but the Day hath fallen asleep
And smiles in dreams of light.
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Beat on in silent stars above.
X.
To-night they sit with sadder, lonelier thought
Than ever; closer comes the Wolf of Want,
And darklier falls the shadow of Orphanhood.
For now the old man keeps his bed, and seems
Death-stricken, with his face of ghastly gray;
His life all crowded in cold glittering eyes
Watching the least light movement that is made.
The Boy, a blithe and sunny godsend, gay
As singing fountain springing in their midst,
With loving spirit leaping to the light,
Is low at heart to-night, and sad and still.
While Dora, in whose purple-lighted eyes
There seems the shadow of a rain-cloud near,
With but a faint shine of the cheery soul;
She longs to fly away and be at rest,
And give her wishes wings in measured words
That win strange pathos from her sweet young voice.
Than ever; closer comes the Wolf of Want,
And darklier falls the shadow of Orphanhood.
For now the old man keeps his bed, and seems
Death-stricken, with his face of ghastly gray;
His life all crowded in cold glittering eyes
Watching the least light movement that is made.
The Boy, a blithe and sunny godsend, gay
As singing fountain springing in their midst,
With loving spirit leaping to the light,
Is low at heart to-night, and sad and still.
While Dora, in whose purple-lighted eyes
There seems the shadow of a rain-cloud near,
With but a faint shine of the cheery soul;
She longs to fly away and be at rest,
And give her wishes wings in measured words
That win strange pathos from her sweet young voice.
“Come to the Better Land, that Angels know;
They walk in glory, shining as they go!
The King in all His beauty takes the least
To sit beside Him at the eternal feast.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
They walk in glory, shining as they go!
The King in all His beauty takes the least
To sit beside Him at the eternal feast.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
“This is a weary world,
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
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“From old heart-ache, and weariness, and pain—
Sorrows that sigh, and hopes that soar in vain—
Come to the Loved and Lost who are now the Blest;
They dwell in regions of Eternal rest.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
Sorrows that sigh, and hopes that soar in vain—
Come to the Loved and Lost who are now the Blest;
They dwell in regions of Eternal rest.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
“This is a weary world,
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
“Here all things change; the warmest hearts grow cold;
The young head droops and dims its glorious gold;
Where Love his pillow hath made on Beauty's breast,
The creatures of the Grave will make their nest.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
The young head droops and dims its glorious gold;
Where Love his pillow hath made on Beauty's breast,
The creatures of the Grave will make their nest.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
“This is a weary world,
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
“The dear eyes where each morning rose our light,
Soon darken with their last eternal night;
The heart that beat for us, the hallowed brow
That bowed to bless, are cold and silent now.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
Soon darken with their last eternal night;
The heart that beat for us, the hallowed brow
That bowed to bless, are cold and silent now.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
“This is a weary world,
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
“Nor fear the Grave, that door of Heaven on Earth;
All changed and beautiful ye shall come forth,
As from the cold dark cloud the winter showers
Go underground to dress, and come forth Flowers.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
All changed and beautiful ye shall come forth,
As from the cold dark cloud the winter showers
Go underground to dress, and come forth Flowers.”
214
“This is a weary world,
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
“Come to the Better Land, that angels know;
They walk in glory, shining as they go!
The King in all His beauty takes the least
To sit beside Him at the eternal feast.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
They walk in glory, shining as they go!
The King in all His beauty takes the least
To sit beside Him at the eternal feast.”
Thus sings the voice that calls me night and day.
“This is a weary world,
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
Come, come, come away!
Ah, 'tis a dreary world,
Come, come away.”
XI.
“Nay, Sister,” says the cheery Martha, “though
Our lot be sad, your strain's too sorrowful!
We cannot spare you yet. Nor must we stoop
To make our burthen heavier; hear me, love.
Our lot be sad, your strain's too sorrowful!
We cannot spare you yet. Nor must we stoop
To make our burthen heavier; hear me, love.
“A little Flower so lowly grew,
So lonely was it left,
That Heaven looked an eye of blue
Down in its rocky cleft.
So lonely was it left,
That Heaven looked an eye of blue
Down in its rocky cleft.
“What could the little Flower do
In such a darksome place,
But try to reach that eye of blue,
And climb to kiss Heaven's face?
In such a darksome place,
But try to reach that eye of blue,
And climb to kiss Heaven's face?
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“And there's no life so lone and low
But strength may still be given
From narrowest lot on earth to grow
The straighter up to Heaven.”
But strength may still be given
From narrowest lot on earth to grow
The straighter up to Heaven.”
Again she sang, and set them singing too.
“Here we are poorest of God's Poor,
Toiling for bread from day to day,
But laid up in Heaven a treasure is sure,
While Money is round and rolls away.
And though there's room for all the rest,
I think God loves the Little Ones best.
Toiling for bread from day to day,
But laid up in Heaven a treasure is sure,
While Money is round and rolls away.
And though there's room for all the rest,
I think God loves the Little Ones best.
“Little hearts make merry, and sing
How His love to Children warms!
Little voices ripple and ring—
How He takes them in His arms!
And though there's room for all the rest,
I think God loves the Little Ones best.”
How His love to Children warms!
Little voices ripple and ring—
How He takes them in His arms!
And though there's room for all the rest,
I think God loves the Little Ones best.”
XII.
Then, silent Fabyan lifted up his look,
Bright as a Daisy when the dews have dried;
A sudden thought struck all the sun in his face.
“Martha and Dora, I know what I'll do!
I'll write a Letter to the good Lord Jesus,
Who helps us if we put our trust in Him.”
The sisters smiled upon him through their tears.
Bright as a Daisy when the dews have dried;
A sudden thought struck all the sun in his face.
“Martha and Dora, I know what I'll do!
I'll write a Letter to the good Lord Jesus,
Who helps us if we put our trust in Him.”
The sisters smiled upon him through their tears.
This was the Letter little Fabyan wrote.
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“Dear, beautiful Lord Jesus,
Christmas is drawing near;
Its many shining sights we see,
Its merry sounds we hear:
With presents for good Children,
I know Thou art going now,
From house to house with Christmas trees,
And lights on every bough.
Christmas is drawing near;
Its many shining sights we see,
Its merry sounds we hear:
With presents for good Children,
I know Thou art going now,
From house to house with Christmas trees,
And lights on every bough.
“I pray thee, good Lord Jesus,
To bring one tree to us,
All aglow with fruits of gold,
And leaves all luminous.
We have no Mother, and, where we live,
No Christmas gifts are given;
We have no Friends on earth, but Thou
Art our good Friend in Heaven.
To bring one tree to us,
All aglow with fruits of gold,
And leaves all luminous.
We have no Mother, and, where we live,
No Christmas gifts are given;
We have no Friends on earth, but Thou
Art our good Friend in Heaven.
“My Sisters, gentle Jesus,
They hide the worst from me;
But I have ears that sometimes hear,
And eyes that often see.
Poor Martha's cloak is worn threadbare,
Poor Dora's boots are old;
And neither of them strong like me,
To stand the wintry cold.
They hide the worst from me;
But I have ears that sometimes hear,
And eyes that often see.
Poor Martha's cloak is worn threadbare,
Poor Dora's boots are old;
And neither of them strong like me,
To stand the wintry cold.
“But most of all, Lord Jesus,
Grandfather is so ill;
'Tis very sad to hear him moan,
And startling when he's still.
Ah! well I know, Lord Jesus,
If Thou would'st only come,
He'd look, and rise, and leave his bed,
As Lazarus left his tomb.
Grandfather is so ill;
'Tis very sad to hear him moan,
And startling when he's still.
Ah! well I know, Lord Jesus,
If Thou would'st only come,
He'd look, and rise, and leave his bed,
As Lazarus left his tomb.
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“Forget us not, Lord Jesus,
I and my sisters dear;
We love Thee! when Thou wert a Child
Had we been only near,
And seen Thee lying, bonny babe,
In manger or in stall,
Thou should'st have had a home with us;
We would have given Thee all.”
I and my sisters dear;
We love Thee! when Thou wert a Child
Had we been only near,
And seen Thee lying, bonny babe,
In manger or in stall,
Thou should'st have had a home with us;
We would have given Thee all.”
XIII.
The Letter signed and sealed, their prayers are said,And Martha lights the younger Bairns to bed.
With all a Mother's heart she bends above
Their rest, her eyes filled with a Mother's love.
For soon their voices cease; life fades away
Into its quiet nest, till morrow-day:
As the lake-lilies shut their leaves of light
When down the gloom descends the hush of night,
In fear of what is passing, bow the head
Beneath the water, they shrink down in bed.
But soon the Angel Sleep doth smile all fear
Away with wooing whispers at the ear;
And they will ope at morn eyes bathed in bliss;
Their faces fresh from their good Angel's kiss.
But Martha sleeps not yet; now they are gone,
Brave little woman, she must still work on,
And watch, to-night, for Grandfather is worse,
She thinks, with no one near, save her for nurse.
XIV.
'Tis very sad to hear a man so old,
Talk of his mother who, beneath the mould,
Has lain an age, and see his childish tears,
That have to pierce the crust of eighty years.
He turns and turns, incapable of rest,
Tossed on the billow that heaves in brain and breast;
A life that beats with all too weak a wave
To land him on the other side the Grave!
The old man mutters in his broken dream.
Talk of his mother who, beneath the mould,
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That have to pierce the crust of eighty years.
He turns and turns, incapable of rest,
Tossed on the billow that heaves in brain and breast;
A life that beats with all too weak a wave
To land him on the other side the Grave!
The old man mutters in his broken dream.
“Last night I wander'd in a world of moan;
I saw a white Soul going all alone,
Over the white snows of eternity;
I followed far, and followed fast to see
The face, and lo, it was my own.”
And now he muses by some weird sea-side.I saw a white Soul going all alone,
Over the white snows of eternity;
I followed far, and followed fast to see
The face, and lo, it was my own.”
“The tide is a-making its bonny Death-bed;
The white sea-maidens rise ready to wed;
Nearer and nearer, unveiling their charms,
They toss for their lovers, long, shadowy arms!
Dancing with other-world music and motion;
Brides of dead Sailors; the Beauties of Ocean.
“Wave after wave my worn, old Bark has tossed;
One moment saved, another it seemed lost
For ever, still it righted from each blow;
But the great wave is coming on me now!
I see it towering high above the rest;
A world of eyes in its white glittering crest;
See how it climbs, calm in its might, and curls
Ready to clasp me in the wildering whirls,
And when it bursts, in darkness, for last breath,
I shall be fighting, grappled fast with Death.”
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Wet eyes; it moves in brightness far from him.
“I am like the hoary Mountain,
Gray with years, and very old;
And your life, a sprightly fountain,
Springs, and leaves me lone and cold;
Dancing, glancing on its way,
Down the valleys warm and gay.
Gray with years, and very old;
And your life, a sprightly fountain,
Springs, and leaves me lone and cold;
Dancing, glancing on its way,
Down the valleys warm and gay.
“There you go, Dear, singing, sparkling,
I can see your dawn begin;
While the night, around me darkling,
With its death-dews, shuts me in—
Hear you singing on your way
To the full and perfect day.”
The suffering passes into weariness;
I can see your dawn begin;
While the night, around me darkling,
With its death-dews, shuts me in—
Hear you singing on your way
To the full and perfect day.”
The weariness fades into kind content:
Faintly the tired heart flutters into stillness,
And he has done with Age, and Want, and Illness.
Gently he passed; the little Maiden wept;
Sank down, o'erwearied, by the dead, and slept,
With such a heavenly lustre on her face,
You might have fancied Angels in the place:
Companions through the day of our delight,
That watch as wingèd Sentries all the night.
XV.
Next day a group of serious silent menFound a Dead Letter with strange life in it;
It was addressed to Jesus Christ in Heaven.
It called up their old hearts into their eyes,
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At length it reached the Lady Marian,
And the Boy's letter had not missed its mark.
XVI.
This is my Lady Marian:
She walks our world, a Shining one!
A Woman with an Angel-face,
Sweet gravity, and tender grace;
And where she treads this earth of ours,
Heaven blossoms into smiling flowers.
This is the Lady Marian.
She walks our world, a Shining one!
A Woman with an Angel-face,
Sweet gravity, and tender grace;
And where she treads this earth of ours,
Heaven blossoms into smiling flowers.
This is the Lady Marian.
One of the spirits that walk in white!
Many dumb hearts that sit in night,
Her presence know, just as the Birds
Know Morning, murmuring cheerful words.
Where Life is darkest, she doth move
With influence as of visible Love.
This is the Lady Marian.
Many dumb hearts that sit in night,
Her presence know, just as the Birds
Know Morning, murmuring cheerful words.
Where Life is darkest, she doth move
With influence as of visible Love.
This is the Lady Marian.
Her coming all your being fills
With a balm-breath from heaven's hills:
And in her face the light is mild
As though the heart within her smiled,
And in her bosom sat to sing
The spirit of immortal Spring.
This is the Lady Marian.
With a balm-breath from heaven's hills:
And in her face the light is mild
As though the heart within her smiled,
And in her bosom sat to sing
The spirit of immortal Spring.
This is the Lady Marian.
“We shall not mend the world; we try,
And lo, our work is vain!” they cry.
With her pathetic look, she hears;
You see the wounded soul bleed tears;
Against the dark she sets her face,
And calmly keeps her onward pace.
This is the Lady Marian.
And lo, our work is vain!” they cry.
With her pathetic look, she hears;
You see the wounded soul bleed tears;
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And calmly keeps her onward pace.
This is the Lady Marian.
One of God's treasurers for the Poor!
She keepeth open heart and door.
That heart a holy well of wealth,
Brimming life-waters, rich with health;
That door an opening you look through,
To find God our side of Heaven's blue.
This is the Lady Marian.
She keepeth open heart and door.
That heart a holy well of wealth,
Brimming life-waters, rich with health;
That door an opening you look through,
To find God our side of Heaven's blue.
This is the Lady Marian.
XVII.
From out the darkness that took shape in Her,The Lady Marian came on Christmas day,
Quick with maternal tenderness of soul,
Her starry smile so radiant through their night,
Her hands brimful of help, as was her heart
With yearnings to arise and go when first
She read the letter little Fabyan sent
In his confiding simpleness of faith,—
One of those representatives of God
Who help to make the Poor believe in Him
Because He hath some living like on Earth.
And Martha knows that their worst days are done;
In Dora's rich sad eyes a merry light
Soon dances! Lady Marian will prove
A Mother, sent of God, to all the three.
A trembling prayer had shook the Tree of Life,
And, golden, out of heaven the fruitage falls
Into their midst they think direct from God.
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