 | Carmina crucis |  |
111
RECEIVING.
“Non vox sed votum, non chordula musica sed cor,
Non clamans sed amans, cantat in aure Dei.”
Non clamans sed amans, cantat in aure Dei.”
My heart is fixed on One above,—
To win His smile, to please His eyes
My heart is fain: because I love,
I serve,—nor yet with tears and sighs;
By patient duty love must rise,—
And late and early, far and near
I sought Him gifts; to Him are dear
The things that others still despise.
To win His smile, to please His eyes
My heart is fain: because I love,
I serve,—nor yet with tears and sighs;
By patient duty love must rise,—
And late and early, far and near
I sought Him gifts; to Him are dear
The things that others still despise.
I sought for Him in Spring-time cold;
The trembling palm that comes in haste,
The little crocus all in gold,
The slender snow-drop, and the bold
Mezereon, on its leafless stem,
Fair things that do not fear to waste
Their gentle souls! and after them
Another store I chanced to find
Of things forgotten, left behind.
The trembling palm that comes in haste,
The little crocus all in gold,
The slender snow-drop, and the bold
Mezereon, on its leafless stem,
Fair things that do not fear to waste
Their gentle souls! and after them
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Of things forgotten, left behind.
Some soft white fleece by briers torn
From off the flock,—some ear of corn
Dropt careless from the gleaner's breast,
The last red berry on the thorn,
Or prize of some forsaken nest.
From off the flock,—some ear of corn
Dropt careless from the gleaner's breast,
The last red berry on the thorn,
Or prize of some forsaken nest.
There came on earth a weary time;
If this be Autumn, where is now
The fruit upon the laden bough,
The harvest redd'ning in the broad
Calm sunshine, where the squirrels hoard,
The winding clear of hunter's horn?
Leaves only, wither'd leaves I found;
A mournful silence, mournful sound
Of wind that rustled through the sere,
Stark boughs, and from the shrunken ear
Shook out the thin and blighted corn.
If this be Autumn, where is now
The fruit upon the laden bough,
The harvest redd'ning in the broad
Calm sunshine, where the squirrels hoard,
The winding clear of hunter's horn?
Leaves only, wither'd leaves I found;
A mournful silence, mournful sound
Of wind that rustled through the sere,
Stark boughs, and from the shrunken ear
Shook out the thin and blighted corn.
But while I mourn'd thereat, more clear
Than song of bird at Autumn eve,
A voice was borne upon mine ear,
A voice that said, “Why wilt thou grieve,
And must I still from thee receive?
How hast thou learnt which pleaseth best
The gift thou bringest, or the free
Firm open palm held up to me?
The less is of the greater blest.
Than song of bird at Autumn eve,
A voice was borne upon mine ear,
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And must I still from thee receive?
How hast thou learnt which pleaseth best
The gift thou bringest, or the free
Firm open palm held up to me?
The less is of the greater blest.
“Remember what on earth I spake.”
“Oh then,” I said, “at this Thy word
I take Thee now, through zeal I erred,
Through love, that bids me now confess
My fault; to give be Thine! to bless
Is Thine; dear Lord, to Thee I leave
The greater blessing! with the less,
So well content I will not grieve
From Thee for ever to receive,
“Oh then,” I said, “at this Thy word
I take Thee now, through zeal I erred,
Through love, that bids me now confess
My fault; to give be Thine! to bless
Is Thine; dear Lord, to Thee I leave
The greater blessing! with the less,
So well content I will not grieve
From Thee for ever to receive,
“And still receive! and never cease
To gaze on all this wealth of Thine,
To joy in all Thy flocks' increase,
Far more than if my cup with wine
And oil ran o'er, and store of wheat
In finest flour, and honey sweet
From out the stony rock were mine!
To gaze on all this wealth of Thine,
To joy in all Thy flocks' increase,
Far more than if my cup with wine
And oil ran o'er, and store of wheat
In finest flour, and honey sweet
From out the stony rock were mine!
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“‘To give than to receive more blest!’
Thou saidest. Oh, Thou Giver free!
Good measure, shaken down and press'd
Together, now I ask from Thee;
Oh! give to me, dear Lord, and still
Increase Thy boons! make broad the place
Where Thou dost dwell in me, and fill
My hands with gifts, my heart with grace;
But let me look upon Thy face.
What need to mourn if Thou on mine
But little comeliness should trace
When love can give me all of Thine?
The loved are fair, the loved are dress'd
In garments rich and fresh and rare.
Oh! bless Thou me and I am blest,
Oh! love Thou me and I am fair!”
Thou saidest. Oh, Thou Giver free!
Good measure, shaken down and press'd
Together, now I ask from Thee;
Oh! give to me, dear Lord, and still
Increase Thy boons! make broad the place
Where Thou dost dwell in me, and fill
My hands with gifts, my heart with grace;
But let me look upon Thy face.
What need to mourn if Thou on mine
But little comeliness should trace
When love can give me all of Thine?
The loved are fair, the loved are dress'd
In garments rich and fresh and rare.
Oh! bless Thou me and I am blest,
Oh! love Thou me and I am fair!”
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