Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander Edited, with a preface, by William Alexander |
| 1 |  | II. |
| 9 |  | III. |
| 7 |
| 1 |
| 1 |
| THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN PRAYERS.
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VII. |
 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN PRAYERS.
I. The Castle.
In an ancient Lombard castle,
Knightly castle, bravely held,
Was a book with golden letters,
Treasured in the days of eld.
Knightly castle, bravely held,
Was a book with golden letters,
Treasured in the days of eld.
308
Hoary missal, silver-claspen,
Yellow with the touch of age;
Dimly traced, the matin service
Moulder'd on the parchment page.
Yellow with the touch of age;
Dimly traced, the matin service
Moulder'd on the parchment page.
None and compline dark and faded,
Golden all the vesper prayer.
Hearken to the dainty legend
How those lines transfigured were.
Golden all the vesper prayer.
Hearken to the dainty legend
How those lines transfigured were.
There's a censer full of odours
On the sea of glass in Heaven;
Prayers and cries that God's good angel
Carries upward, morn and even.
On the sea of glass in Heaven;
Prayers and cries that God's good angel
Carries upward, morn and even.
Ah! perchance some sighs he beareth,
Voiceless, on the eternal stairs,
Some good work, in love's hot furnace,
Molten into golden prayers.
Voiceless, on the eternal stairs,
Some good work, in love's hot furnace,
Molten into golden prayers.
From his castle by the forest
Rides the princely Count to Rome,
And his bride, the fair Beata,
Keeps her quiet state at home.
Rides the princely Count to Rome,
And his bride, the fair Beata,
Keeps her quiet state at home.
Noble, with a gentle presence,
Moves the lady 'mid her train;
Knight, and dame, and old retainer
Fret not at her silken rein.
Moves the lady 'mid her train;
Knight, and dame, and old retainer
Fret not at her silken rein.
309
On the wall the warder paces,
In the court the pages play,
And the small bell in the chapel
Duly calls them forth to pray.
In the court the pages play,
And the small bell in the chapel
Duly calls them forth to pray.
From her turret-chamber's lattice
Looks the fair Beata forth,
Sees the sun-tinged white snow mountains
Rosy in the distant north;
Looks the fair Beata forth,
Sees the sun-tinged white snow mountains
Rosy in the distant north;
Sees below the peasant's cottage,
In its smoke-wreath blue and grey,
And the sea of the great forest
Creeping many a mile away.
In its smoke-wreath blue and grey,
And the sea of the great forest
Creeping many a mile away.
All the rich Italian summers
Darkly green it swell'd and roll'd,
Then the Autumn came and mark'd it
With his brand of red and gold.
Darkly green it swell'd and roll'd,
Then the Autumn came and mark'd it
With his brand of red and gold.
Full of song, and love, and gladness,
Leaps her heart at every breeze,
Dances with the chequer'd sunlight,
Laughs along the moving trees.
Leaps her heart at every breeze,
Dances with the chequer'd sunlight,
Laughs along the moving trees.
Yet it hath a downward yearning,
And a woman's feeling true
For the cares that never touch'd her,
For the pains she never knew.
And a woman's feeling true
For the cares that never touch'd her,
For the pains she never knew.
310
Through those homes of painful serfdom,
Like a charm she comes to move,
Tells them of a nobler freedom,
Soothes them with a sweeter love.
Like a charm she comes to move,
Tells them of a nobler freedom,
Soothes them with a sweeter love.
In the stately castle chapel,
Morn and eve, the prayers are said,
Where the rounded grey stone arches
Stand about the mould'ring dead.
Morn and eve, the prayers are said,
Where the rounded grey stone arches
Stand about the mould'ring dead.
Rays of amethyst and purple
Touch their tombstones on the floor,
And a sunset splendour floods them
Through the open western door.
Touch their tombstones on the floor,
And a sunset splendour floods them
Through the open western door.
Morn and eve the lady Countess
Kneels below the altar-stair,
On her fringèd crimson cushion,
With a face as grave and fair
Kneels below the altar-stair,
On her fringèd crimson cushion,
With a face as grave and fair
As that lady in the chancel,
Kneeling ever, night and day,
With her parted lips of marble,
Frozen into prayers for aye.
Kneeling ever, night and day,
With her parted lips of marble,
Frozen into prayers for aye.
Till, perchance, a stream of music
Sweepeth from the choir on high,
And her face grows bright a minute,
And the light behind her eye
Sweepeth from the choir on high,
And her face grows bright a minute,
And the light behind her eye
311
Kindles every carven feature
With a flush of love and glory,
Like the sun in a stain'd window
Touching out some grand old story.
With a flush of love and glory,
Like the sun in a stain'd window
Touching out some grand old story.
But the bells are ringing vespers,
And Beata is not there,—
Streams the sunlight down the arches,
Missing much that presence fair.
And Beata is not there,—
Streams the sunlight down the arches,
Missing much that presence fair.
And the angels on the columns
Seem to listen for her tread,
With their white and eager faces,
And their marble wings outspread.
Seem to listen for her tread,
With their white and eager faces,
And their marble wings outspread.
“Lay aside thy hood, O Countess,
And thy mantle's russet fold;
It were late now in the forest,”
Saith the waiting-lady old.
And thy mantle's russet fold;
It were late now in the forest,”
Saith the waiting-lady old.
“Take thy coif of pearls and velvet,
Take thy veil of Flanders' lace,
All the bells are ringing vespers,
And 'tis time we were in place.”
Take thy veil of Flanders' lace,
All the bells are ringing vespers,
And 'tis time we were in place.”
“Go to church, good Lady Bertha,
Say thy prayers,” Beata said;
“But to-night I must say vespers
By a dying sister's bed.
Say thy prayers,” Beata said;
“But to-night I must say vespers
By a dying sister's bed.
312
“From the blind old woodman's cottage
Came a token that I know;
Sick to death his maiden lieth,
On the forest verge below.
Came a token that I know;
Sick to death his maiden lieth,
On the forest verge below.
“We shall pray when she, forgotten,
In her grave, grass-cover'd, lies;
But she must not pass unpitied—
Love is more than sacrifice.
In her grave, grass-cover'd, lies;
But she must not pass unpitied—
Love is more than sacrifice.
“We shall pray when she is singing
At the foot of the great throne;
Should she tell our Lord in Heaven
That we let her die alone?”
At the foot of the great throne;
Should she tell our Lord in Heaven
That we let her die alone?”
So the lady took her gospel,
And she pinn'd the grey cloth hood,
And pass'd down the winding staircase,
Through the postern, to the wood,
And she pinn'd the grey cloth hood,
And pass'd down the winding staircase,
Through the postern, to the wood,
With a half regretful feeling;
For her heart was lingering there—
On the fringèd crimson cushion
Just below the altar-stair.
For her heart was lingering there—
On the fringèd crimson cushion
Just below the altar-stair.
Now the Priest is robed for service,
And the choristers draw near,
And the bells are ringing—ringing
In the Lady Bertha's ear.
And the choristers draw near,
And the bells are ringing—ringing
In the Lady Bertha's ear.
313
II. The Departure.
But the lady treads the forest dark,
Where the twisted path is rough and red,
The huge tree trunks, with their knotted bark,
In and out, stand up on either side;
Down below, their boughs are thin and wide,
But they mingle darkly overhead;
Only sometimes where the jealous screen,
Broken, shows a glimpse of Heaven between,
And the light falls in a silver flood,
Grows a little patch of purest green,
Where, when in the Spring the flowers unfold,
Lieth a long gleam of blue and gold
Hidden in the heart of the old wood.
And a wider space shows on the verge
Of the forest by a bright stream bound,
That keeps fresh a plot of open ground,
Whence the blind old woodman hears the surge
Of the sea of leaves that toss their foam
Of white blossoms round his lowly home,
Whose poor thatch, amid that living mass
Of rich verdure, lieth dark and brown,
Like a lark's nest, russet in the grass
Of a bare field on a breezy down.
Where the twisted path is rough and red,
The huge tree trunks, with their knotted bark,
In and out, stand up on either side;
Down below, their boughs are thin and wide,
But they mingle darkly overhead;
Only sometimes where the jealous screen,
Broken, shows a glimpse of Heaven between,
And the light falls in a silver flood,
Grows a little patch of purest green,
Where, when in the Spring the flowers unfold,
Lieth a long gleam of blue and gold
Hidden in the heart of the old wood.
And a wider space shows on the verge
Of the forest by a bright stream bound,
That keeps fresh a plot of open ground,
Whence the blind old woodman hears the surge
Of the sea of leaves that toss their foam
Of white blossoms round his lowly home,
Whose poor thatch, amid that living mass
Of rich verdure, lieth dark and brown,
Like a lark's nest, russet in the grass
Of a bare field on a breezy down.
In an inner chamber lay the girl,
Dying, as the Autumn day died out.
The low wind, that bore the leaves about,
Every now and then, with sudden whirl,
Through her casement made the curtain flap
With a weary sound upon the wall;
Moved the linen lying on her lap;
But she lay and heeded not at all,
With the brown hands folded close together,
And the cheek, all stain'd with toil and weather,
Fading underneath the squalid cap.
Turn, poor sufferer, give one dying look
To the forest over the clear brook,
For the sunset dim in thy low chamber
Touches it with emerald and amber,
Clasps its jewels in a golden setting—
Ah! she doth not heed, she will not turn,
She but asks the rapture of forgetting,
Life has left her few delights to mourn.
Painful childhood without sport or laughter,
Cheerless growing up in toil and care,
Wanting sympathy to make life fair;
Outward dulness, and an inward blight—
Doom of many that we read aright,
Only in the light of the hereafter.
Dying, as the Autumn day died out.
314
Every now and then, with sudden whirl,
Through her casement made the curtain flap
With a weary sound upon the wall;
Moved the linen lying on her lap;
But she lay and heeded not at all,
With the brown hands folded close together,
And the cheek, all stain'd with toil and weather,
Fading underneath the squalid cap.
Turn, poor sufferer, give one dying look
To the forest over the clear brook,
For the sunset dim in thy low chamber
Touches it with emerald and amber,
Clasps its jewels in a golden setting—
Ah! she doth not heed, she will not turn,
She but asks the rapture of forgetting,
Life has left her few delights to mourn.
Painful childhood without sport or laughter,
Cheerless growing up in toil and care,
Wanting sympathy to make life fair;
Outward dulness, and an inward blight—
Doom of many that we read aright,
Only in the light of the hereafter.
Now her life ebbs to a new beginning,
Not alone the end of toil and sinning,
Not alone the perfect loss of pain,
But the bursting of a life-long chain,
And a dark film passing from the eyes,
The soul breaking into that full blaze
That in gleams, and thoughts, and fantasies
Broke but rarely on her earthly days;
For the shadow of the forest lay
On the crush'd heart of the forest maid;
Glorious sunshine, and the light of day,
And the blue air of long summers play'd
Ever in the green tops of the trees:—
Down below were depths and mysteries,
Dim perspectives, and a humid smell
Of decaying leaves and rotted cones;
While, far up, the wild bee rung her bell,
And the blossoms nodded on their thrones,
She, poor foundling at another's hearth,
She, the blind man's helper and his slave,
To whose thought the quiet of the grave
Hardly paid the drudgery of earth.
Not alone the end of toil and sinning,
Not alone the perfect loss of pain,
But the bursting of a life-long chain,
And a dark film passing from the eyes,
315
That in gleams, and thoughts, and fantasies
Broke but rarely on her earthly days;
For the shadow of the forest lay
On the crush'd heart of the forest maid;
Glorious sunshine, and the light of day,
And the blue air of long summers play'd
Ever in the green tops of the trees:—
Down below were depths and mysteries,
Dim perspectives, and a humid smell
Of decaying leaves and rotted cones;
While, far up, the wild bee rung her bell,
And the blossoms nodded on their thrones,
She, poor foundling at another's hearth,
She, the blind man's helper and his slave,
To whose thought the quiet of the grave
Hardly paid the drudgery of earth.
Till the lady found the forlorn creature,
And she told her all the marvellous story,
Divine love, and suffering, and glory,
That to her abused, neglected nature,
Slowly did a gleam of hope impart—
Gleam that never rose to light her feature,
But it burn'd into her blighted heart:
Gave a meaning to each sound that haunted
Arch on arch, the forest's depth of aisle,
Set to music every wind that chanted,
Made it all a consecrated pile,
For the lady to the chapel stately,
Though the pages whisper'd in her train,
Though the Lady Bertha marvell'd greatly,
Led her once, and oft she came again.
'Neath the crimson window's blazonry,
There she saw the priest and people kneeling,
Trembled at the loud Laudates pealing,
Wept along the solemn Litany;
Mark'd the Psalter's long majestic flow,
With brief pause of sudden Glorias riven,
Heard it warbling at the gates of Heaven,
Heard it wailing from the depths below.
But most won the Gospel strain her soul
When its one clear solitary tone,
After music, on the hush'd church stole.
Like a sweet bird that sings on alone
When the storm of harmony is done,
Or that voice the Prophet heard of old
When the tempest died upon the wold.
And a form divine, great, gentle, wise,
Slowly out of that grand picture grew,
Look'd into her soul with human eyes,
To His heart the desolate creature drew—
Tender heart that beat so kind and true
To her wants, and cares, and sympathies.
Never more His presence fair forsakes her,
To her weary solitude He follows,
Meets her in the forest depths and hollows,
By her rough and toil-worn hand He takes her,
Smiles upon her with His heavenly face,
Till the wood is an enchanted place.
When a beam in summer stray'd, perchance,
Through the boughs that darkly intertwine,
Comes to break a slender silver lance
On the brown trunk of some aged pine,
Falls in shivers on the dappled moss
That doth all its hoary roots emboss;
She, uplooking to that glorious ray,
Saith: “It cometh from the throne of Christ,
Some good saint hath won the holy tryste,
And Heaven's gate is open wide to-day.”
Or when o'er the April sky there pass'd
Clouds that made the forest darkness denser,
And the shadows, by the bare trunks cast,
Weirder, and the distant gloom intenser;
When, as she sat listening, overhead
Came short silence, and a sound of drops,
And a tossing in the great tree tops,
And she saw across the broken arch
Fall the green tufts of the tassell'd larch,
And the white chestnut flowers, row on row,
And the pine-plumes dashing to and fro.
As the thunder cloud pass'd o'er, she said:
“Sure the saints are round about the King,
And I see the waving palms they bring.”
Fair Beata kneeleth at her side,
To her shrunken lip the cordial gives,
Tells her gently that her Saviour lives,
Gently tells her that her Saviour died.
“Read, O Lady, read those words of sorrow,
Part of rapture, and of anguish part,
Which in presence of that awful morrow
Jesus spake—the dying to the dying,
When the dear one on His bosom lying,
Caught them breathing from His breaking heart.”
And the lady from her gospel olden
Read, while ebbed the worn-out life away;
Paused awhile the parting spirit, holden
By the exquisite beauty of the lay.
Ah, did ever poem tell so sweetly
To the saint the rapture of his rest?
Ah, did requiem ever lull so meetly
Weary sinner on a Saviour's breast?
And she told her all the marvellous story,
Divine love, and suffering, and glory,
That to her abused, neglected nature,
Slowly did a gleam of hope impart—
Gleam that never rose to light her feature,
But it burn'd into her blighted heart:
Gave a meaning to each sound that haunted
Arch on arch, the forest's depth of aisle,
Set to music every wind that chanted,
Made it all a consecrated pile,
316
Though the pages whisper'd in her train,
Though the Lady Bertha marvell'd greatly,
Led her once, and oft she came again.
'Neath the crimson window's blazonry,
There she saw the priest and people kneeling,
Trembled at the loud Laudates pealing,
Wept along the solemn Litany;
Mark'd the Psalter's long majestic flow,
With brief pause of sudden Glorias riven,
Heard it warbling at the gates of Heaven,
Heard it wailing from the depths below.
But most won the Gospel strain her soul
When its one clear solitary tone,
After music, on the hush'd church stole.
Like a sweet bird that sings on alone
When the storm of harmony is done,
Or that voice the Prophet heard of old
When the tempest died upon the wold.
And a form divine, great, gentle, wise,
Slowly out of that grand picture grew,
Look'd into her soul with human eyes,
To His heart the desolate creature drew—
Tender heart that beat so kind and true
To her wants, and cares, and sympathies.
Never more His presence fair forsakes her,
To her weary solitude He follows,
Meets her in the forest depths and hollows,
By her rough and toil-worn hand He takes her,
317
Till the wood is an enchanted place.
When a beam in summer stray'd, perchance,
Through the boughs that darkly intertwine,
Comes to break a slender silver lance
On the brown trunk of some aged pine,
Falls in shivers on the dappled moss
That doth all its hoary roots emboss;
She, uplooking to that glorious ray,
Saith: “It cometh from the throne of Christ,
Some good saint hath won the holy tryste,
And Heaven's gate is open wide to-day.”
Or when o'er the April sky there pass'd
Clouds that made the forest darkness denser,
And the shadows, by the bare trunks cast,
Weirder, and the distant gloom intenser;
When, as she sat listening, overhead
Came short silence, and a sound of drops,
And a tossing in the great tree tops,
And she saw across the broken arch
Fall the green tufts of the tassell'd larch,
And the white chestnut flowers, row on row,
And the pine-plumes dashing to and fro.
As the thunder cloud pass'd o'er, she said:
“Sure the saints are round about the King,
And I see the waving palms they bring.”
Fair Beata kneeleth at her side,
To her shrunken lip the cordial gives,
Tells her gently that her Saviour lives,
318
“Read, O Lady, read those words of sorrow,
Part of rapture, and of anguish part,
Which in presence of that awful morrow
Jesus spake—the dying to the dying,
When the dear one on His bosom lying,
Caught them breathing from His breaking heart.”
And the lady from her gospel olden
Read, while ebbed the worn-out life away;
Paused awhile the parting spirit, holden
By the exquisite beauty of the lay.
Ah, did ever poem tell so sweetly
To the saint the rapture of his rest?
Ah, did requiem ever lull so meetly
Weary sinner on a Saviour's breast?
But there comes a strange short quiver now
Creeping darkly up from chin to brow—
Sweet Beata never look'd on death,
And she reads on with unbated breath.
But the blind man, sitting at the door,
Crieth: “Silence, for I hear a shout
In Heaven, and a rustling on the floor,
And the sound of something passing out,
And my hair is lifted with a rush
Of angels' wings. They have pass'd by me. Hush!”
Creeping darkly up from chin to brow—
Sweet Beata never look'd on death,
And she reads on with unbated breath.
But the blind man, sitting at the door,
Crieth: “Silence, for I hear a shout
In Heaven, and a rustling on the floor,
And the sound of something passing out,
And my hair is lifted with a rush
Of angels' wings. They have pass'd by me. Hush!”
319
III. The Angel.
Now the bells have ceased to ring,
And the priest begins to pray,
And the loaded censers swing,
And the answers die away—
Wandering through those arches grey,
As the choir responsive sing
And the priest begins to pray,
And the loaded censers swing,
And the answers die away—
Wandering through those arches grey,
As the choir responsive sing
Lady Bertha sweepeth in
With a sadly-troubled brow,
Velvet-robed from foot to chin,
And the points of delicate lace
Laid about her wither'd face.
Serf and soldier all make room,
And the pages kneel in order
In the stately lady's train.
Dim the window's pictured pane,
Dim its deep-stain'd flowery border—
All the chancel lies in gloom;
Lower down along the floor
Gleams of glorious radiance pour,
Not in rays of green or blue
From some old apostle's vest,
Not with light of warmer hue
Won from martyrs' crimson breast,
But the sunset's own soft gleaming
Through the western entrance streaming
Like a line of silver spears
Levell'd when the leader cheers.
With a sadly-troubled brow,
Velvet-robed from foot to chin,
And the points of delicate lace
Laid about her wither'd face.
Serf and soldier all make room,
And the pages kneel in order
In the stately lady's train.
Dim the window's pictured pane,
Dim its deep-stain'd flowery border—
All the chancel lies in gloom;
Lower down along the floor
Gleams of glorious radiance pour,
Not in rays of green or blue
From some old apostle's vest,
Not with light of warmer hue
Won from martyrs' crimson breast,
But the sunset's own soft gleaming
320
Like a line of silver spears
Levell'd when the leader cheers.
Not a bell is ringing now,
But the priest is praying loud,
And the choir is answering,
And the people murmur low,
And the incense, like a cloud,
Curls along the chapel proud,
As the loaded censers swing.
Who is this that comes to pray?
Is it priest with stole of white,
In a silver amice dight,
Or a chorister gone astray,
With a bended golden head
Kneeling on the cushion red,
Where the lady knelt alway?
Stay, O priest, thy solemn tone;
A strange voice is join'd to thine:
O sweet Lady cut in stone,
Lift for once those marble eyes
From the gilded carven shrine
Where thy silent warrior lies
In the dim-lit chancel air;
Never, 'mid the kneeling throng
Come to share thy vigil long,
Was worshipper so rare.
Ah, fair saint! she looks not back,
And the priest unto a Higher
Than the whole angelic choir
Calleth; so he doth not slack.
But the people pause and stare,
Even the pages dare not wink,
And the rustling ladies shrink,
And the women low are saying,
Each into a hooded face,
“'Tis a blessed angel praying
In our sainted lady's place.”
But the priest is praying loud,
And the choir is answering,
And the people murmur low,
And the incense, like a cloud,
Curls along the chapel proud,
As the loaded censers swing.
Who is this that comes to pray?
Is it priest with stole of white,
In a silver amice dight,
Or a chorister gone astray,
With a bended golden head
Kneeling on the cushion red,
Where the lady knelt alway?
Stay, O priest, thy solemn tone;
A strange voice is join'd to thine:
O sweet Lady cut in stone,
Lift for once those marble eyes
From the gilded carven shrine
Where thy silent warrior lies
In the dim-lit chancel air;
Never, 'mid the kneeling throng
Come to share thy vigil long,
Was worshipper so rare.
Ah, fair saint! she looks not back,
321
Than the whole angelic choir
Calleth; so he doth not slack.
But the people pause and stare,
Even the pages dare not wink,
And the rustling ladies shrink,
And the women low are saying,
Each into a hooded face,
“'Tis a blessed angel praying
In our sainted lady's place.”
But not one of all the host
That beheld and wonder'd most,
After, could the semblance trace
Of that bright angelic creature;
Though they look'd into his feature,
They but saw a bright face glowing,
Golden tresses like a crown,
And the white wings folded down,
And a silver vesture flowing;
Like a dream of poet's weaving,
Or some painter's fond conceiving
Never to his canvas known;
Or the sculptor's warm ideal,
Never wrought into the real
Cold, unbreathing stone.
That beheld and wonder'd most,
After, could the semblance trace
Of that bright angelic creature;
Though they look'd into his feature,
They but saw a bright face glowing,
Golden tresses like a crown,
And the white wings folded down,
And a silver vesture flowing;
Like a dream of poet's weaving,
Or some painter's fond conceiving
Never to his canvas known;
Or the sculptor's warm ideal,
Never wrought into the real
Cold, unbreathing stone.
But a little maiden saith:—
“I have seen it on the day
When my tender mother lay
Struggling with the pangs of death;
Such a creature came to stand
At the bed-side, palm in hand,
And a crown upon his wand,
Beckoning as he heavenward flew;
Then she slept, and left me too.”
“I have seen it on the day
When my tender mother lay
322
Such a creature came to stand
At the bed-side, palm in hand,
And a crown upon his wand,
Beckoning as he heavenward flew;
Then she slept, and left me too.”
“I have seen it,” whispering loud,
Saith a mother in the crowd,
“When my christen'd babe did lie
Drest for death, and I sat by
In a trance of grief and pain:—
Cold the forehead without stain,
Dark the dimple and the eye
That was light and love to mine—
Faded every rosy line
Round the sweet mouth stiff and dumb—
He was there, I saw him come;
Laid aside the coffin-lid
Where my broken flower lay hid,
And he took it to his breast,
In his two arms closely prest,
Upward—upward—through the blue,
With a carol sweet and wild,
Bore my darling, and I knew
Christ had sent him for my child.”
Saith a mother in the crowd,
“When my christen'd babe did lie
Drest for death, and I sat by
In a trance of grief and pain:—
Cold the forehead without stain,
Dark the dimple and the eye
That was light and love to mine—
Faded every rosy line
Round the sweet mouth stiff and dumb—
He was there, I saw him come;
Laid aside the coffin-lid
Where my broken flower lay hid,
And he took it to his breast,
In his two arms closely prest,
Upward—upward—through the blue,
With a carol sweet and wild,
Bore my darling, and I knew
Christ had sent him for my child.”
Still the angel saith his prayers,
Reading from Beata's book;
Every time the pages shook
A most wondrous fragrance took
All the creeping chapel air,
Like the scent in woods below
When the limes are all a-blow.
He is gone—the prayers are over—
By the altar, on the stair,
Folded in its vellum cover,
He hath laid the missal rare;
Every prayer the angel told
On its page had turn'd to gold.
Sweet Beata found it there
As the early morning gleam'd,
When she came to thank the Lord
For that weary soul redeem'd,
Trembling at the story quaint
Of her angel visitant.
And she saw each changèd word—
Then she knew that through Heaven's door
Many a gift the angel bears,
And cast it on the crystal floor,
Where love-deeds are golden prayers.
Reading from Beata's book;
Every time the pages shook
323
All the creeping chapel air,
Like the scent in woods below
When the limes are all a-blow.
He is gone—the prayers are over—
By the altar, on the stair,
Folded in its vellum cover,
He hath laid the missal rare;
Every prayer the angel told
On its page had turn'd to gold.
Sweet Beata found it there
As the early morning gleam'd,
When she came to thank the Lord
For that weary soul redeem'd,
Trembling at the story quaint
Of her angel visitant.
And she saw each changèd word—
Then she knew that through Heaven's door
Many a gift the angel bears,
And cast it on the crystal floor,
Where love-deeds are golden prayers.
“A legend, I believe of Italian origin, of a lady of rank who vexed herself with the thought that her domestic interfered with her devotional duties. On one occasion when she had been called away from church, she found, on returning, that the pages that she had missed in her Breviary had been re-written in letters of gold, and that an angel had taken her place and prayed in her stead during her absence.”—Lord Lindsay's Christian Art, vol. I. cciv.
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |