Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander Edited, with a preface, by William Alexander |
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| THE BARON'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. |
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 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
THE BARON'S LITTLE DAUGHTER.
“I love the winter violet blue,”
The child said to her mother,
“With its sweet scent and purple hue,
It blossoms through the rain and snow,
And never heeds what wind may blow,
Sure earth has no such other.”
The child said to her mother,
“With its sweet scent and purple hue,
It blossoms through the rain and snow,
And never heeds what wind may blow,
Sure earth has no such other.”
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And she made answer quietly,
That lady beautiful to see,
Bending the child above,
“The likest thing in all the earth
To that sweet flowret's modest worth,
Is pure unselfish love.”
That lady beautiful to see,
Bending the child above,
“The likest thing in all the earth
To that sweet flowret's modest worth,
Is pure unselfish love.”
And her eyes shone with double light
Through the long silken fringe,
Around their lids so shrunk and white,
And on each cheek glowed strangely bright
The spot of hectic tinge.
Amid the fair child's ringlets free
Played her long fingers wan,
“You must love your father tenderly,
Clarice, when I am gone.
Through the long silken fringe,
Around their lids so shrunk and white,
And on each cheek glowed strangely bright
The spot of hectic tinge.
Amid the fair child's ringlets free
Played her long fingers wan,
“You must love your father tenderly,
Clarice, when I am gone.
“When he comes weary from the chase
He will not meet my glad embrace,
Nor chide again in playful mood,
The weakness of my woman's blood,
As shrinking I essay
The heavy corselet to unlace,
And take the visor from his face
After the battle day.
He will not meet my glad embrace,
Nor chide again in playful mood,
The weakness of my woman's blood,
As shrinking I essay
The heavy corselet to unlace,
And take the visor from his face
After the battle day.
“No hand but yours to mix the cup,
When he is vexed and hot.”—
The little child looked meekly up,
Through locks that cast a golden glow,
Upon her delicate young brow,
Like sunrise on a hill of snow;
“O, sweetest mother, do not go;
You know he loves me not.
When he is vexed and hot.”—
The little child looked meekly up,
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Upon her delicate young brow,
Like sunrise on a hill of snow;
“O, sweetest mother, do not go;
You know he loves me not.
“He bids me sternly from his sight,
He cannot brook my voice to hear;
His large dark eyes so fiercely bright,
That look so soft when you are near
As shaded clouds of summer light,
To me are black as winter night.
He cannot brook my voice to hear;
His large dark eyes so fiercely bright,
That look so soft when you are near
As shaded clouds of summer light,
To me are black as winter night.
“He gives no kisses to my cheek,
Like those he gives to you,
Why is it,—gentle mother, speak—
He cannot love us two?
Has his broad breast a heart so small,
That it can care for one alone?
And how may love to him be shown
Who loveth not at all?”
Like those he gives to you,
Why is it,—gentle mother, speak—
He cannot love us two?
Has his broad breast a heart so small,
That it can care for one alone?
And how may love to him be shown
Who loveth not at all?”
So quick the breathing came and went,
Against that lady's wasted side,
For sorrow as the child replied,
That every breath was like a sob,
And you could hear the pulses throb,
Like short rough waves too closely pent,
Of an uneasy tide.
Against that lady's wasted side,
For sorrow as the child replied,
That every breath was like a sob,
And you could hear the pulses throb,
Like short rough waves too closely pent,
Of an uneasy tide.
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Far up, far up, in turret high,
With loophole looking to the sky,
That lady's chamber lay;
Whence they could see the tall trees toss
Their topmost boughs in middle air,
And down below the small white cross,
On roof of the carved chapel fair,
Gleam in the sunset ray.
With loophole looking to the sky,
That lady's chamber lay;
Whence they could see the tall trees toss
Their topmost boughs in middle air,
And down below the small white cross,
On roof of the carved chapel fair,
Gleam in the sunset ray.
“My child, my child, did He not love,
Who hung for thee thereon?”
(Slowly doth her finger move,
Until it showeth steadily,
Sign of best love and agony,
That little cross of stone.)
Who hung for thee thereon?”
(Slowly doth her finger move,
Until it showeth steadily,
Sign of best love and agony,
That little cross of stone.)
“And where for Him was mercy dear,
Or pitying thought, or soothing tear?
Who loved Him as He loved?
Did they not scorn His gentleness?
Did they not mock His soul's distress,
And meet His melting tenderness
Unsoftened and unmoved?
Or pitying thought, or soothing tear?
Who loved Him as He loved?
Did they not scorn His gentleness?
Did they not mock His soul's distress,
And meet His melting tenderness
Unsoftened and unmoved?
“And you are His, sweet daughter mine,
Whom shadowed o'er by His own sign,
We vowed His cup to share—
To love, to suffer, and to do,
These are the marks His children wear;
And seems the path too rough for you,
The cross too sharp to bear?
Whom shadowed o'er by His own sign,
We vowed His cup to share—
To love, to suffer, and to do,
These are the marks His children wear;
And seems the path too rough for you,
The cross too sharp to bear?
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“Nay, truest hearts love on, my child,
And look not for return,
And love is gentle, patient, mild,
Nor knoweth aught of words that burn,
Of fierce reproach and anger stern.
E'en selfish worldly hearts have caught
A warmth by others given;
But that which gives its own for nought,
Is like the God of Heaven.”
And look not for return,
And love is gentle, patient, mild,
Nor knoweth aught of words that burn,
Of fierce reproach and anger stern.
E'en selfish worldly hearts have caught
A warmth by others given;
But that which gives its own for nought,
Is like the God of Heaven.”
The little maiden bowed her head,
Her soft cheek blushed a deeper red,
And tears came swimming o'er her eyes,
Like rain, 'twixt earth and summer skies;
But ere the sunset's golden touch
Had faded from that cross of stone,
The shower had passed, the cloud was gone—
The child knelt by her mother's couch.
Her soft cheek blushed a deeper red,
And tears came swimming o'er her eyes,
Like rain, 'twixt earth and summer skies;
But ere the sunset's golden touch
Had faded from that cross of stone,
The shower had passed, the cloud was gone—
The child knelt by her mother's couch.
Her gentle eyes, all blue and clear,
To Heaven were lifted trustingly:
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly did the maiden pray,
“And guard him in the battle fray,
And make him to love me.”
To Heaven were lifted trustingly:
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly did the maiden pray,
“And guard him in the battle fray,
And make him to love me.”
The Moldau flings her silver spray,
Round Rosenberg's green summer woods;
The mighty Danube rolls his floods,
By tower, and hamlet, far away.—
Sir Otho is the bravest knight,
That battles for Duke Conrad's right,
He hath a princely sway.
Round Rosenberg's green summer woods;
The mighty Danube rolls his floods,
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Sir Otho is the bravest knight,
That battles for Duke Conrad's right,
He hath a princely sway.
I ween it were a long day's ride,
But if you left the Moldau side,
When matin prayers were sung,
Ere you had reached the last Church tower,
That owned Sir Otho's feudal power,
The vespers would have rung.
The foremost by the Kaiser's steed,
Sir Otho rides in battle fray;
And bards have sung his glorious deed,
Full many a night in festal lay.
But if you left the Moldau side,
When matin prayers were sung,
Ere you had reached the last Church tower,
That owned Sir Otho's feudal power,
The vespers would have rung.
The foremost by the Kaiser's steed,
Sir Otho rides in battle fray;
And bards have sung his glorious deed,
Full many a night in festal lay.
And he has set above the shrine,
With reverent hand God's holy sign,
But wore it not within;
For where the Cross of Christ doth reign,
There wilful sin may not remain;
The proudest man in all Almaine
Is he; and pride is sin.
With reverent hand God's holy sign,
But wore it not within;
For where the Cross of Christ doth reign,
There wilful sin may not remain;
The proudest man in all Almaine
Is he; and pride is sin.
Sir Otho had a gentle bride:
The fairest rose in all the land,
He plucked it with his mailed right hand,
He twined it round his battle brand.
O shame upon the warrior's pride!
The fairest rose in all the land,
He plucked it with his mailed right hand,
He twined it round his battle brand.
O shame upon the warrior's pride!
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Shame on his heart! not even she
So lovely in her innocent joy,
Can make him bow to Heaven's decree,
Because he has no boy;
So lovely in her innocent joy,
Can make him bow to Heaven's decree,
Because he has no boy;
While he, his house's ancient foe,
The Lichtenberg's young lord, who gave
His plighted troth in the same hour,
And bore home to his bridal bower
The daughter of Rodolph the brave,
Has two fair sons to show.
The Lichtenberg's young lord, who gave
His plighted troth in the same hour,
And bore home to his bridal bower
The daughter of Rodolph the brave,
Has two fair sons to show.
And when in council-hall of late,
The chieftain by his rival sate,
Sir Eldred asked in jeering mood,
“How suits the dove the goshawk's nest?”
Hot flowed Sir Otho's fiery blood;
He cannot brook a jest.
The chieftain by his rival sate,
Sir Eldred asked in jeering mood,
“How suits the dove the goshawk's nest?”
Hot flowed Sir Otho's fiery blood;
He cannot brook a jest.
Sweet Spring hath many a blossom bright,
That cold winds wither at their birth,
'Tis well that cold looks cannot blight
The living flowers of earth.
That cold winds wither at their birth,
'Tis well that cold looks cannot blight
The living flowers of earth.
But silent now within the hall
Of Rosenberg, the festal call,
The banner droops upon the wall.
The very Moldau's voice is dull;
The gentle dame so beautiful,
Whose smile alone the poor man loved,
Far better than another's gold,
And blest her softly as she moved,
With pious truth so meekly told,
And sweet bright looks for young and old;—
Of Rosenberg, the festal call,
The banner droops upon the wall.
The very Moldau's voice is dull;
The gentle dame so beautiful,
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Far better than another's gold,
And blest her softly as she moved,
With pious truth so meekly told,
And sweet bright looks for young and old;—
She in the cold Church chancel lieth,
Without a smile, without a word.
Sir Knight, the fair and noble dieth,
Even like the common herd.
Without a smile, without a word.
Sir Knight, the fair and noble dieth,
Even like the common herd.
The pavement stone lies on her breast,
But over it, a tomb is dressed
And the bright sunbeams as they fall
In coloured lines along the wall,
See day by day, reflected there,
The image of that lady fair,
With carvéd lip, and sculptured hair,
And white hands ever joined in prayer,
On her cold bosom pressed:
And angel form, with wings dispread,
And palm in hand, beside her head.
But over it, a tomb is dressed
And the bright sunbeams as they fall
In coloured lines along the wall,
See day by day, reflected there,
The image of that lady fair,
With carvéd lip, and sculptured hair,
And white hands ever joined in prayer,
On her cold bosom pressed:
And angel form, with wings dispread,
And palm in hand, beside her head.
And since in life her hands were seen
Thus, ofttimes, when in prayer she bent,
Therefore, that marble monument
Still bears a semblance faint,
Of what she is, and what has been,
Bright angel, praying saint.
The Baron's heart is sorely wrung,
He shuns the chase, he spurns the wine,
He kneeleth low at holy shrine,
O, God is good to old and young,
And they will seek His sympathy,
When hearts are torn, when eyes are dim
Who never in prosperity,
Or served, or cared for Him.
Thus, ofttimes, when in prayer she bent,
Therefore, that marble monument
Still bears a semblance faint,
Of what she is, and what has been,
Bright angel, praying saint.
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He shuns the chase, he spurns the wine,
He kneeleth low at holy shrine,
O, God is good to old and young,
And they will seek His sympathy,
When hearts are torn, when eyes are dim
Who never in prosperity,
Or served, or cared for Him.
So he has doffed the warrior plume,
And duly at the matin time,
He kneeleth in his spirit's gloom,
And duly when the vespers chime,
Beside his lady's tomb.
And duly at the matin time,
He kneeleth in his spirit's gloom,
And duly when the vespers chime,
Beside his lady's tomb.
When first the warrior thither came,
Sweet violets, and roses red,
By the white image of the dame,
Lay on her marble bed.
He took the garland from its rest,
He set it in his unmailed breast,
It seemed to soothe his grief;
And ever after, day by day,
Thereon a bunch of sweet flowers lay,
Fresh gathered, for the chief.
Sweet violets, and roses red,
By the white image of the dame,
Lay on her marble bed.
He took the garland from its rest,
He set it in his unmailed breast,
It seemed to soothe his grief;
And ever after, day by day,
Thereon a bunch of sweet flowers lay,
Fresh gathered, for the chief.
He never thought what little hand
Had culled them, ere the dew was dry;
What tiny fingers tied the band;—
He never thought whose soft clear eye
Looked glistening on his inward throe,
And in her simple heart had planned
This solace for his woe.
Had culled them, ere the dew was dry;
What tiny fingers tied the band;—
He never thought whose soft clear eye
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And in her simple heart had planned
This solace for his woe.
O, strange it is, how man will bear
His heart to God's Own House of prayer:
And when the solemn organ swelleth,
And when the Holy Writing telleth,
Of His sweet mercy dear,
Who was so lowly, pure, and true,
Who died for us so tenderly,
And bade us like good deeds to do,
As loving, and as meek to be—
The words shall fill his ear;
His heart to God's Own House of prayer:
And when the solemn organ swelleth,
And when the Holy Writing telleth,
Of His sweet mercy dear,
Who was so lowly, pure, and true,
Who died for us so tenderly,
And bade us like good deeds to do,
As loving, and as meek to be—
The words shall fill his ear;
And his voice mingling there will borrow
The strain of penitential sorrow;
Yet unrepented still within
Lurks deep his bosom's cherished sin,
And he will go to-day, to-morrow,
And be, as he has been.
The strain of penitential sorrow;
Yet unrepented still within
Lurks deep his bosom's cherished sin,
And he will go to-day, to-morrow,
And be, as he has been.
Sir Otho is as cold and proud,
In his dark sorrow, now;
As in his hours most blest, and bright.—
The rugged mountain's flinty height
Is none the softer for the cloud
That rests upon its brow.
In his dark sorrow, now;
As in his hours most blest, and bright.—
The rugged mountain's flinty height
Is none the softer for the cloud
That rests upon its brow.
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The child is in the turret tall,
The warder passes to and fro,
She hears the river's murmuring fall,
She sees the green trees wave below.
The warder passes to and fro,
She hears the river's murmuring fall,
She sees the green trees wave below.
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
She lifteth up her blue eye clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And help him in dark sorrow's day,
And make him to love me.”
She lifteth up her blue eye clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And help him in dark sorrow's day,
And make him to love me.”
Devoted love, and gentle thought,
Are meetest for the saints on earth:
Good deeds are infinite in worth,
The tokens of that better birth,
By God's good Spirit in us wrought:
And if they fail to do their part,
On others their own charm impressing
Surely, they come back to the heart
That gave them, with a double blessing.
Are meetest for the saints on earth:
Good deeds are infinite in worth,
The tokens of that better birth,
By God's good Spirit in us wrought:
And if they fail to do their part,
On others their own charm impressing
Surely, they come back to the heart
That gave them, with a double blessing.
The wild rose in the desert placed,
Unfolding all in vain the power
Of her sweet perfume to the waste,
Herself grows lovelier every hour.
The stream runs broader as it flows;
And kindlier, sweeter, meeker grows,
Each day the child within the tower,
The Baron's solitary rose.
Unfolding all in vain the power
Of her sweet perfume to the waste,
Herself grows lovelier every hour.
The stream runs broader as it flows;
And kindlier, sweeter, meeker grows,
Each day the child within the tower,
The Baron's solitary rose.
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The Baron to the fight has gone,
Pain, sorrow, love are all forgot,
His helm is donned: who answers not,
When Conrad calls his own?
Pain, sorrow, love are all forgot,
His helm is donned: who answers not,
When Conrad calls his own?
The fair child at her lonely sport,
Has heard the heavy warriors tramp,
Has heard the eager chargers champ,
Beneath her in the castle court.
Has heard the heavy warriors tramp,
Has heard the eager chargers champ,
Beneath her in the castle court.
And hastily she climbed into
The narrow casement, tall and high,
Thence looked down with an eager eye
And soon his stately form she knew,
Who never to that casement threw
The comfort of one kind adieu.
The narrow casement, tall and high,
Thence looked down with an eager eye
And soon his stately form she knew,
Who never to that casement threw
The comfort of one kind adieu.
For the first ray of morning light
Was gleaming on his armour bright,
And she could trace on azure field,
The grey goshawk that decked his shield;
And she could see on his helmed head,
The mingled plumes of white, and red,
Shake in the early air:
As slow the arméd train rode out,
With trumpet clang, and martial shout.
She watched them till her eyes grew dim,
Then soft she sang her morning hymn,
And prayed her daily prayer.
Was gleaming on his armour bright,
And she could trace on azure field,
The grey goshawk that decked his shield;
And she could see on his helmed head,
The mingled plumes of white, and red,
Shake in the early air:
As slow the arméd train rode out,
With trumpet clang, and martial shout.
She watched them till her eyes grew dim,
Then soft she sang her morning hymn,
And prayed her daily prayer.
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“'Tis a good alms and sweetly given;
God bless the little lady's hand,
It is the smallest in the land,
That brings us home the gifts of Heaven.”
Thus the poor villagers would say,
When angel-like the blue-eyed maiden
Came gliding down the rugged way
From that old mountain fortress, laden
With simple things, that poor men know
Can lighten pain, or soften woe.
God bless the little lady's hand,
It is the smallest in the land,
That brings us home the gifts of Heaven.”
Thus the poor villagers would say,
When angel-like the blue-eyed maiden
Came gliding down the rugged way
From that old mountain fortress, laden
With simple things, that poor men know
Can lighten pain, or soften woe.
The gentle maiden, motherless,
They loved her, with the love that longs
Its kindly feelings to express;
And in their simple-heartedness,
The good old dames would sing her songs,
And lull her in their arms to sleep.
And old men told her many a tale,
Of wars, that made her cheek grow pale,
And woes that made her weep.
They loved her, with the love that longs
Its kindly feelings to express;
And in their simple-heartedness,
The good old dames would sing her songs,
And lull her in their arms to sleep.
And old men told her many a tale,
Of wars, that made her cheek grow pale,
And woes that made her weep.
They told how wounded men had lain,
Long nights upon the battle plain,
With festering flesh, and thirsty soul,
And none had brought the cooling bowl,
No loving wife, no duteous daughter;
And they had died with hearts on flame,
And parched lips, praying in God's Name,
For one poor drop of water.
Long nights upon the battle plain,
With festering flesh, and thirsty soul,
And none had brought the cooling bowl,
No loving wife, no duteous daughter;
And they had died with hearts on flame,
And parched lips, praying in God's Name,
For one poor drop of water.
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And when the lonely innocent
Back to her turret chamber went,
Oft would she sit and think
Of prayers breathed o'er and o'er again,
By the parched lips of dying men,
That asked in vain to drink.
Back to her turret chamber went,
Oft would she sit and think
Of prayers breathed o'er and o'er again,
By the parched lips of dying men,
That asked in vain to drink.
They little think, the high and great,
Who lead the war, or sway the state,
How much of safety and success,
To soft words breathed in gentleness
By simple lips are due,
And pleadings of the faithful soul;—
For God in Heaven will save the whole,
For the sake of the holy few:
And the spell of poor men's quiet prayers
Is brooding o'er them unawares.
Who lead the war, or sway the state,
How much of safety and success,
To soft words breathed in gentleness
By simple lips are due,
And pleadings of the faithful soul;—
For God in Heaven will save the whole,
For the sake of the holy few:
And the spell of poor men's quiet prayers
Is brooding o'er them unawares.
Little he deemed, that man of pride,
When oft the axe was turned aside,
And battle spear that might have sent
The sinner to his punishment,
Who pleaded for his grace;
Where little children's angels dwell,
In presence of the Invisible,
And see the Father's face.
When oft the axe was turned aside,
And battle spear that might have sent
The sinner to his punishment,
Who pleaded for his grace;
Where little children's angels dwell,
In presence of the Invisible,
And see the Father's face.
The child sits in the turret tall,
She hears the warder pacing near
And sometimes the old seneschal
Will come to question of her cheer,
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And shield him in the battle day,
And make him to love me.”
She hears the warder pacing near
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Will come to question of her cheer,
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And shield him in the battle day,
And make him to love me.”
The child hath heard the seneschal
Speak to her maidens in the hall,
“The messenger came yesternight,
Right heavy tidings did he bring;
He saith it was a fearful fight,
The Baron is not with the King.”
Speak to her maidens in the hall,
“The messenger came yesternight,
Right heavy tidings did he bring;
He saith it was a fearful fight,
The Baron is not with the King.”
The women's cheeks grew pale with fear,—
“It is not two days' march from here,
And it was yester eve;”
Still as they spake the child drew near;
Perhaps they did not well believe
That one so young would heed their word,
Or one so slighted could not grieve,
They thought, for that stern lord.
“It is not two days' march from here,
And it was yester eve;”
Still as they spake the child drew near;
Perhaps they did not well believe
That one so young would heed their word,
Or one so slighted could not grieve,
They thought, for that stern lord.
“Pray God the Baron be not slain,”
The old retainer said again;
“He rides not with the Kaiser's train.”
“Or haply he is wounded sore,
And lieth on the battle plain,”
A maiden said, and spake no more,
Because the child's full eye she saw,
Fixed on her face in silent awe.
The old retainer said again;
“He rides not with the Kaiser's train.”
“Or haply he is wounded sore,
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A maiden said, and spake no more,
Because the child's full eye she saw,
Fixed on her face in silent awe.
Then did they whisper; and go out,
Where each might speak her dread and doubt,
Unheard of her, who did not moan,
Nor weep, there being left alone.
Only, to herself she said,
“There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring,
To cool his burning head.”
Where each might speak her dread and doubt,
Unheard of her, who did not moan,
Nor weep, there being left alone.
Only, to herself she said,
“There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring,
To cool his burning head.”
The child kneels in the turret tall,
The warder did not pace that day,
For all was terror and dismay
Within the castle wall.
She rose up with a calm, fixed face,
That neither wept at all, nor smiled,
Only she said, “God give me grace:
There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring;
I am his only child.”
The warder did not pace that day,
For all was terror and dismay
Within the castle wall.
She rose up with a calm, fixed face,
That neither wept at all, nor smiled,
Only she said, “God give me grace:
There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring;
I am his only child.”
She took her grey cloth mantle fine,
The pitcher in her small hand fair,
Wherein she mingled with due care,
Fresh water and old wine.
The pitcher in her small hand fair,
Wherein she mingled with due care,
Fresh water and old wine.
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Her maidens saw her passing out,
And one did to the other say,
“There will be stragglers from the rout;
The lady should not walk to-day,”—
“Nay, but the poor child's heart is lonely,
She beareth in her hand a boon,
She goeth to the hamlet only,
She will be back ere noon.”
And one did to the other say,
“There will be stragglers from the rout;
The lady should not walk to-day,”—
“Nay, but the poor child's heart is lonely,
She beareth in her hand a boon,
She goeth to the hamlet only,
She will be back ere noon.”
The child is at the Moldau side,
(For she hath seen at break of day
Some weary horsemen ride that way,
And they were from the battle fray.)
Nor needed she another guide,
Than that dark stream whereon were borne
Bright broken plumes and banners torn,
Whose flood was purple dyed.
(For she hath seen at break of day
Some weary horsemen ride that way,
And they were from the battle fray.)
Nor needed she another guide,
Than that dark stream whereon were borne
Bright broken plumes and banners torn,
Whose flood was purple dyed.
And on through field and open glade,
All through that pleasant vine-dressed land,
The pitcher in her little hand,
She journeyed on, and never stayed.
All through that pleasant vine-dressed land,
The pitcher in her little hand,
She journeyed on, and never stayed.
The broad sun told the middle day,
And still she hastened on her way;
The broad sun faded in the west,
She did not weary or turn back,
And she had passed by many a track
Where foot of horse and man had pressed;
And still she hastened on her way;
The broad sun faded in the west,
She did not weary or turn back,
And she had passed by many a track
Where foot of horse and man had pressed;
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And wounded men had met the maiden,
And plunderers with booty laden:
But never one did her alarm
With word of scorn, or deed of harm.
And plunderers with booty laden:
But never one did her alarm
With word of scorn, or deed of harm.
Because the innocent spirit bears
A charm against the evil power,
And God's good angels every hour,
Watch round it unawares.
And never yet, I ween, was ward
Of sentinel, or portal barred,
Like those white wings of theirs.
A charm against the evil power,
And God's good angels every hour,
Watch round it unawares.
And never yet, I ween, was ward
Of sentinel, or portal barred,
Like those white wings of theirs.
And she as sweetly, soundly slept,
While the night shadows round her crept,
In that deep forest's gloom;
While far away the wolf did howl,
And to and fro the large white owl,
Went flitting o'er her head,
As in the quiet turret room,
On her own silken bed.
While the night shadows round her crept,
In that deep forest's gloom;
While far away the wolf did howl,
And to and fro the large white owl,
Went flitting o'er her head,
As in the quiet turret room,
On her own silken bed.
The child is in the lone greenwood,
She hears the white owl hooting near,
She hears the murmur of the flood
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,
All through this dreadful night,” she saith,
“And save him from the soldier's death,
And make him to love me.”
She hears the white owl hooting near,
She hears the murmur of the flood
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,
All through this dreadful night,” she saith,
“And save him from the soldier's death,
And make him to love me.”
219
The morning sun roused up the child,
Touching the lids of her sealed eyes;
And she sat up, and almost smiled,
First in her innocent surprise:
So strange unto her earnest gaze,
So fresh and beautiful did seem
All nature in its morning haze;
While bright the bladed grass did gleam,
With every dewdrop like a beam
Fresh fallen from the skies.
Touching the lids of her sealed eyes;
And she sat up, and almost smiled,
First in her innocent surprise:
So strange unto her earnest gaze,
So fresh and beautiful did seem
All nature in its morning haze;
While bright the bladed grass did gleam,
With every dewdrop like a beam
Fresh fallen from the skies.
The child has taken hastily
The pitcher in her little hand;
She wanders through that lovely hand,
Herself a thing more fair to see,
Than opening flower or dewy sod,
A witness of the truth of God,
Of kindly thoughts, and holy powers,
Still lingering on this earth of ours.
The pitcher in her little hand;
She wanders through that lovely hand,
Herself a thing more fair to see,
Than opening flower or dewy sod,
A witness of the truth of God,
Of kindly thoughts, and holy powers,
Still lingering on this earth of ours.
And telling the cold-hearted world,
What love can dare and do.—
Her golden hair is all uncurled,
Her cheek is white, her lip is blue,
Her little feet are swollen sore,
And still she journeys as before,
Her heart is brave and true.
What love can dare and do.—
Her golden hair is all uncurled,
Her cheek is white, her lip is blue,
Her little feet are swollen sore,
And still she journeys as before,
Her heart is brave and true.
She passed the tufted birchen bower,
The elderbush all white with flower,
She passed the line of forest trees;—
And all at once the fearful sight,
Whereon her eye had sought to dwell,
Now in its nearness terrible,
The battle-field of deadly fight,
Trampled and strewn, she sees.
The elderbush all white with flower,
She passed the line of forest trees;—
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Whereon her eye had sought to dwell,
Now in its nearness terrible,
The battle-field of deadly fight,
Trampled and strewn, she sees.
The eyes of the dead men did glare,
Through the still misty morning air,
Up, with a fixed and glassy stare,
Into the lone child's face.
She did not turn back to the wood,
Only she trembled as she stood,
Looking on them a little space.
Through the still misty morning air,
Up, with a fixed and glassy stare,
Into the lone child's face.
She did not turn back to the wood,
Only she trembled as she stood,
Looking on them a little space.
And in her frightened heart she saith,
“How strange and stiff the slumberers lie:
Do warriors sleep with open eye,
That they may watch each other?
Or haply this cold trance is death,—
And yet they look not like my mother,
When she lay cold, and stiff abed,
And maidens told me she was dead.”
“How strange and stiff the slumberers lie:
Do warriors sleep with open eye,
That they may watch each other?
Or haply this cold trance is death,—
And yet they look not like my mother,
When she lay cold, and stiff abed,
And maidens told me she was dead.”
Still on, and on, across the plain,
She hastens through the heaps of slain.
Why stays she in her ghastly walk
To trace the image half concealed
In blood and dust on yonder shield?
Ah! well she knows that grey goshawk,
And the soiled plume of white and red,
Still streaming from that prostrate head.
She hastens through the heaps of slain.
Why stays she in her ghastly walk
To trace the image half concealed
In blood and dust on yonder shield?
Ah! well she knows that grey goshawk,
And the soiled plume of white and red,
Still streaming from that prostrate head.
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Long time, long time the child did linger
O'er the close steel vizor barred,
Ere she unclasped with her slight finger
The iron cold and hard,
And when it yielded to the strength
Of her true purpose, and at length
Her father's face before her lay,
She shrank a little space away;
And dared not kiss his rigid brow
As she knelt by him on the sod,
And heard him mutter hoarse and low,
“Give water for the love of God.”
O'er the close steel vizor barred,
Ere she unclasped with her slight finger
The iron cold and hard,
And when it yielded to the strength
Of her true purpose, and at length
Her father's face before her lay,
She shrank a little space away;
And dared not kiss his rigid brow
As she knelt by him on the sod,
And heard him mutter hoarse and low,
“Give water for the love of God.”
And still she shivered as she set
His dark head on her little knee,
And her hand trembled as she wet
His pale parched lips most tenderly.
His dark head on her little knee,
And her hand trembled as she wet
His pale parched lips most tenderly.
The Baron drank an eager draught,
At the small pitcher's brim,
And the life ebbing as he quaffed,
Lit up again his dark eye dim,
And thrilled his pulse, and moved his limb.
An earnest glance he lifted up,
To her who gave that pitying cup,
And looked on her in strange amaze,
While she, her blue eyes opened wide,
Sat in the terror of that gaze,
And had not power to draw aside.
He murmured, “'Tis a vision wild,
O God, have mercy on my sin;
Proud man, bad father have I been,
She was my only child.
At the small pitcher's brim,
And the life ebbing as he quaffed,
Lit up again his dark eye dim,
And thrilled his pulse, and moved his limb.
An earnest glance he lifted up,
To her who gave that pitying cup,
And looked on her in strange amaze,
While she, her blue eyes opened wide,
Sat in the terror of that gaze,
And had not power to draw aside.
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O God, have mercy on my sin;
Proud man, bad father have I been,
She was my only child.
“I had no other thing on earth,—
I never loved her from her birth,—
And comes the false fiend to upbraid
My spirit in its dying time,
With the pale image of my crime?
It cannot be the maid.”
I never loved her from her birth,—
And comes the false fiend to upbraid
My spirit in its dying time,
With the pale image of my crime?
It cannot be the maid.”
O, fearful sinner! God is good;
They're real lips of flesh and blood,
That press thy brow, and strive to speak,
They're real tears as warm and bright,
As e'er from eyes of living light,
Have fallen, when woman's heart was weak,
That drop upon thy bloodless cheek.
They're real lips of flesh and blood,
That press thy brow, and strive to speak,
They're real tears as warm and bright,
As e'er from eyes of living light,
Have fallen, when woman's heart was weak,
That drop upon thy bloodless cheek.
How could his soul so long in ire,
The spell of her sweet love withstand?
Those tears to him are drops of fire,
And still he feels that light cool hand
Heaping the hot coals on his head.
“My child, I have not merited
This mercy at thine hand,” he said.
He tries to raise him from the ground,
The staunched blood gushes free and warm
Again from out his gaping wound,
He fainteth on her arm.
The spell of her sweet love withstand?
Those tears to him are drops of fire,
And still he feels that light cool hand
Heaping the hot coals on his head.
“My child, I have not merited
This mercy at thine hand,” he said.
He tries to raise him from the ground,
The staunched blood gushes free and warm
Again from out his gaping wound,
He fainteth on her arm.
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“O hasten, hasten, holy man,
The bloody wound gapes in his side,
Thine hand hath skill to staunch the tide.”
Closely did the old priest scan
The child's pale face in wonderment,
Whose little blood-stained hand was pressed
So closely on his dark serge vest,
And then he turned and with her went.
The bloody wound gapes in his side,
Thine hand hath skill to staunch the tide.”
Closely did the old priest scan
The child's pale face in wonderment,
Whose little blood-stained hand was pressed
So closely on his dark serge vest,
And then he turned and with her went.
He was a man of love and prayer,
Come from his lowly chapel near,
At break of day to wander there
The voice of penitence to hear,
To shrive, to comfort, and to pray,
Ere the poor spirit passed away.
Come from his lowly chapel near,
At break of day to wander there
The voice of penitence to hear,
To shrive, to comfort, and to pray,
Ere the poor spirit passed away.
And when he stood with lifted rood
Beside the man of sin and blood,
And saw with sweet caresses mild,
And cooling cup, the gentle child
Over the bleeding warrior bent,
He almost deemed her in his need,
A ministering angel, sent
To help his holy deed.
Beside the man of sin and blood,
And saw with sweet caresses mild,
And cooling cup, the gentle child
Over the bleeding warrior bent,
He almost deemed her in his need,
A ministering angel, sent
To help his holy deed.
He staunched the warrior's gaping wound,
He bore him from the battle ground,
He watched him many a weary day,
He and the child in mute distress,
And prayed and counselled as he lay,
And soothed his spirit's bitterness.
He bore him from the battle ground,
He watched him many a weary day,
He and the child in mute distress,
And prayed and counselled as he lay,
And soothed his spirit's bitterness.
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O, sickness is a teacher good
Through its long hours of silent thought,
And souls that have all else withstood,
Strong pain hath tamed and taught.
Through its long hours of silent thought,
And souls that have all else withstood,
Strong pain hath tamed and taught.
And fierce remorse is hard to bear,
But holy penitence is sweet,
It beareth fruit of contrite prayer,
Of righteous deeds most meet,
In love and earnestness to tell,
Before the face of man and Heaven,
Of punishment deserved too well,
For one dear Sake forgiven.
But holy penitence is sweet,
It beareth fruit of contrite prayer,
Of righteous deeds most meet,
In love and earnestness to tell,
Before the face of man and Heaven,
Of punishment deserved too well,
For one dear Sake forgiven.
An altered man the Baron rides
Back from that bloody battle field;
He loves no more the spear and shield;
An altered man he glides
All up the chapel chancel fair,
In other mood he kneels in prayer.
Back from that bloody battle field;
He loves no more the spear and shield;
An altered man he glides
All up the chapel chancel fair,
In other mood he kneels in prayer.
And he hath cast his pride away,
And when of late on council day,
The haughty Eldred passed him by,
And took the highest place,
There came no anger in his eye,
No flush on his calm face.
“Good sooth, the Baron groweth meek,”
The knights said each in other's ear;
Full well Sir Otho marked the jeer,
And yet he did not speak.
And when of late on council day,
The haughty Eldred passed him by,
And took the highest place,
There came no anger in his eye,
No flush on his calm face.
“Good sooth, the Baron groweth meek,”
The knights said each in other's ear;
Full well Sir Otho marked the jeer,
And yet he did not speak.
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All through his lands, the poor men bless
The lord who is so high and great,
Yet knows to pity their distress.—
There are twelve poor children motherless
Fed daily at his gate.
For woes that little children share
His heart has a peculiar care,
All other woes above.
His child no more is desolate,
She hath a father's love.
The lord who is so high and great,
Yet knows to pity their distress.—
There are twelve poor children motherless
Fed daily at his gate.
For woes that little children share
His heart has a peculiar care,
All other woes above.
His child no more is desolate,
She hath a father's love.
The child is in the turret tall,
But not alone as heretofore,
The warder paces on the wall,
The Moldau murmurs to the shore,
The child kneels at her father's knee,
Her eye is bright, her voice is clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus ever prayeth she,
“Down on us two Thy blessing pour,
And make my heart to love him more,
Who dearly loveth me.”
But not alone as heretofore,
The warder paces on the wall,
The Moldau murmurs to the shore,
The child kneels at her father's knee,
Her eye is bright, her voice is clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus ever prayeth she,
“Down on us two Thy blessing pour,
And make my heart to love him more,
Who dearly loveth me.”
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |