Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander :: :: University of Virginia Library

“There have been weeds in garden bowers,
By chance winds thither brought,
That have grown up amid the flowers,
And there have stood long summer hours,
Yet, nothing of their fragrance caught.
And hearts have been in Christian land,
With names enrolled in Christ's Own band,
And brows that bore His cleansing mark;
Yet knew not of His spirit mild.—
She was a woman stern and dark,
To whom they gave the child.

“The tears were in mine eyes; I prayed,
And almost on my bended knee,
Sith I was godsire to the child,
That she might dwell with me.

“Alas! the dame was harsh and stern,
She led her weary nights and days,
She nothing knew of childhood's ways,
And how should she their nature learn?
She had no children of her own,
And in her loneness she had grown

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E'en like the rock, whereon there fall
No drops of water day by day,
To wear its ruggedness away:
Hers was a cruel thrall.

“I seldom saw my darling then,
And she did never make complaint,
Only to mine earnest ken
It seemed her voice did grow more faint,
And I could count, she grew so thin,
The small bones underneath her skin.

“She never spake of usage hard,
Only after doors were barred,
When birds and lambs are gone to rest,
And children should be long abed;
A little hand my latch has pressed,
And she has come and asked for bread.

“And neighbours told me they had heard
In the dark night a childish moan,
All day rude blow and angry word,
And hours of toil beyond her years,
And threats that mocked at childhood's fears:
Ah me! that woman's heart was stone.

“A woman might perchance have borne,
A man had power to hold his own:
But one poor little child alone,

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With that hard bondage daily worn,
Oppressed, unloved, and over-wrought,
It was a miserable thought.

“And I could hardly rest at night,
For thought of Lilian's wretched plight;
And when my children slept around,
The music of their breathing deep,
Would fail to lull my soul to sleep,
With its deep regular sound.

“Till weary with my long unrest,
I have risen up by night, and gone
Out in the trouble of my breast,
To wander through the twilight wan.

“One morn, within the old park wall,
I stood beside the trodden track,
Where erst the happy peasants all,
Had pressed to Church, and lingered back.

“The first faint streak of early dawn,
Just lifted up the night-clouds grey,
And whitening all the silver lawn,
The pearly dew like hoar-frost lay.

“The lark's first song rose clear and sweet,
Fresh from his purple clover bed:
I heard the sound of coming feet,
But 'twas so light a tread,
That I drew back a little space,
As thin king fays might haunt the place.

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“Sweet Lilian through the glistening grass,
Came with quick step and frightened air,
Straight to the church wall did she pass,
And somewhat in her hand did bear.

“She looked so pale and spiritwise,
I thought at first it was her ghost,
Lingering awhile in fleshly guise,
Around the spot she lovéd most.

“By the north door she entered in,
I on her footsteps softly crept:
That door scarce closed that once had been
So carefully and duly kept,
Save when the solemn church bells chimed,
For evensong or matin prayer,—
Into a window tall I climbed,
To see what did she there.

“Dear heart! it was a marvellous sight
The eastern heavens were all alight,
And through the arched east window tall
Its shivered rose of fair design,
The slanting rays now stainless all,
Broke in in many a silver line.

“And by the tomb of that red knight,
Who wore the cross in eastern fight,
Sweet Lilian sat; and she had spread
Her simple feast of meat and bread,

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What I and others ne'er denied
Unto her earnest prayer.
There sat an old man at her side,
The Pastor with his thin white hair.

“O! but our hearts were cold and dull,
That knew not where our Priest to seek;
God's ways are wise and wonderful,
His tools are small and weak.

“With words of gratitude and praise,
The Pastor broke the simple food,
And drank the water clear and good,
And she sat by him, with a gaze
That almost made her eye grow bright,
With its old innocent delight.
I thought as I did on them look,
Of the old tales of Israel,
And of the Prophet by the brook,
And how the Lord, unchangeable,
Was still a Lord of life and love,
And for the raven sent the dove.

“He by the altar knelt and prayed,
And she without the rail did bow,
I could not hear the words he said,
But the strong murmur deep and low,
Filled all the lonely church; and then
As echo answers from the hills,
When some wild strain of music thrills,
There came her soft ‘Amen.’

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“Then both his hands on her bent head
He laid, and blessed her; and she came
Forth from the church; and to the dame
Went back while yet the sky was red.

“I kneeling lonely, in the hush
Of mine own chamber, ere the blush
Of that bright morning in the skies,
Had broken on my children's eyes,
Did ponder in my prayer,
How much that little hand had wrought,
How slow to hers, how cold my thought,
How full of selfish care.

“Due portion from that hour I laid
Each day aside for Lilian's store,
With smiles and kisses she repaid,
But spake not, nor I questioned more.

“This was not long: the summer time
Had passed her glorious middle prime,
And long ere yellow autumn browned
With sober touch, her foliage fair,
The good old Priest no more was there.
I know not if the foemen found
At last, their hotly hunted prey,
Or if the good man went away
To labour some more grateful ground:
One knew, but she would only say,

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He bade us watch, and work, and pray:
And never came she as of yore,
At twilight, to my cottage door.

“The autumn days grew shorter still,
And Lilian waxed more faint and ill,
She did not moan, she did not weep,
But ever walked with us like one
Who longeth to lie down and sleep,
Yet lingered still, her work all done;
Like birds that hang with their white wings
Just on the verge of the blue sea;
Till autumn faded utterly,
All beautiful and fragrant things
Die then; and so died she.

“That woman of ungentle mood,
One morn beside my threshold stood,
And told, half angry, half in fear,
Ere dawn the child had been away,
And sure she must have wandered here.
I had not seen her all the day:
And the stern woman's cheek grew pale,
And neighbours gathered at the tale,
And all with anxious face; for we
Did love the child exceedingly.

“Women, and youths, and bearded men,
We sought her in each hamlet home,
And through the park, and up the glen.

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At length I whispered, ‘Let us come
To the old church; by word or dell,
No spot loves Lilian half so well.’

“Good sir, it is a piteous tale:
We found her by the chancel stair,
Where last with him she knelt in prayer,
E'en at the altar rail,
Thereon reclined her little head,
In her closed hand the king's gift lay,
We tried to take those flowers away,
And found that she was dead.

“Without a pang, without a sob,
It seemed the child's sweet soul had fled
From its poor dwelling quietly,
Up to His presence, Who has said,
‘Let little children come to Me.’
We felt for but one little throb
Of pulse or heart, in vain; 'tis strange
How man will tremble at that change!
How we did watch most earnestly
Those eyes, for but one gleam of life,
Though the next moment they might be
Wet with the anguish of its strife.

“I knew she would not find unrest
Again, or weariness, or loss:
I knew that for the dewy cross,
I saw on her pale brow impressed,

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Henceforth would be a golden crown;
And yet the tears dropped slowly down.
It was a natural grief, good sir,
None other breathed on earth like her.

“We laid her underneath this sod,
And each one in his heart did trust
Our sister's body to the dust,
Her soul unto the living God;
For none was there to speak aloud,
The holy words above her shroud.

“But I do never seek the place,
But over my whole soul will creep
Thoughts of her gentleness, and grace,
And patient goodness, like the deep
Sweet murmur of some river's flow,
That we have dwelt by long ago,
And seem to hear again in sleep.

“She was a token unto me,
Of truth veiled up in mystery,
A sign that prayer is answerèd,
So strongly, e'en to outward sense,
Had the Great Spirit's influence,
On her young soul been shed.

“Alas! our hearts are slow to faith,
That Spirit worketh every day;
Can we not trust Him when He saith,
He heareth all we say?

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“And thus I learnt, how poor low things
Do service to the King of kings,
Led on by His own might.
For never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand hath been too weak or small,
To work for Him, Who works in all.”

The stranger riseth to depart,
With moistened eye, and softened heart,
Like one who in the desert ground
Perchance a little spot has found,
A fountain clear as morning dew,
With green grass planted all around,
And sweet flowers springing through.
He had but come in idleness,
To scan those arches old and grey,—
A thought of love and holiness,
A dream of peace and blessedness,
That stranger bore away.