Songs for Sufferers :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lying on a bed of pain for weeks, I wrote these poems; and hoping that the thoughts which comforted me then might comfort others in suffering, I have published them. In the Valley of the Shadow we see things more clearly, and they take their true proportion and perspective.

RESURRECTION GROUND.

God reigneth yet on earth, and Christ hath risen
And rises every day in my sick-room.
He sweeps it bright and clean with loving broom;
The dust no longer soils my sanctuary prison,
He purgeth it of darkness and of doom.
The grave-clothes, fear's wild fancy on me wound,
Are radiance of the resurrection ground.

Faith is the other side of blank misgiving,
Hope casts out terror with its cosmic sweep
That probes the mysteries of the height and deep;
I catch the horizon of a larger living.
Beyond the boundaries of Time's little sleep.
Each perished thought of good I deemed had gone
Emergeth now once more, and lights me on.

There is no death, no sickness, nothing passes
Except corruption and mere earth-born ill,
The sun and moon as evermore stand still;
Yea, at Love's footsteps all our creeds and classes
Meet in the marriage of the Holy Will.
The tomb is not a tomb but refuge found,
There is no place not resurrection ground.

PENTECOST.

I never knew what Spirit could be, till
The wounded body sadly failed me,
And seemed the home of every ache and ill;
But, at the end of earthly effort, still
A vaster power within availed me.
Nature's desertion then was Grace's hour,
And all my being burst in glorious power.

I did renew my youth, the Spirit's might,
Though bodied in a holy meekness,
Put on fresh verdure, and leapt up in light;
I stood enthronèd on a sacred height,
That rose above my mortal weakness.
Far other gifts and fairer bloom were mine,
That drew from very frailty strength divine.

Each sinking of the heart was just a gain
Of spiritual faith and forces,
That reaped a harvest rich from throbbing pain;
And, with the body crucified and slain,
I drank new life from heavenly sources.
Yea, every little fleshly service lost
Was the beginning of a Pentecost.

WHERE IS NOT CALVARY?

My sun hath set, and O my dearest Lord,
Full soon Thy stars will shine on goodlier ground
For other lost sheep that Thy love hath found;
But bind the victim closer with the cord
Of sacrifice, Thy life hath worn and bound.
It draws me closer to Thee, lights my lot—
And tell me where Thy Calvary is not.

Yea, in the throbbing head Thou bearest still
The largest portion, and the labouring breast
Emptied of all but Thee is doubly blest;
The sorest pain yet summers in Thy will,
And every pang is of Thy joy possest.
There never was a crown or lovelier loss
Than the great royalty that is Thy Cross.

Ah, by the bedside of the afflicted soul,
Where day and night are one and bitter breath
Each gasp that follows gasp, and life is death;
When landmarks fail and suffering is the whole,
Thou art above the trial and beneath.
Though bulwarks fly and vanish time and space,
I clasp some sweet nail in redeeming Grace.

MY LOVER.

The sun looks in through the frosty glass
Of my sick-room in the morning,
And the shadows fall on the shining grass;
For the Light is my Lover, He will not pass
One blade with the skirts of scorning.
And I always see, over the gleaming sod,
The piercèd feet of the Living God.

I feel His breath on my fevered face,
And never a day He misses;
But behind the cloud is His secret place;
When we touch in a tender and long embrace,
My sufferings are His kisses.
Oh, the Light is my Lover, on tree or clod,
And my bedroom grave is the House of God.

Ah, nothing can veil Him from these eyes,
Of that Presence I am most certain,
And the sun never sets in the hidden skies;
Where my Lover hath yet some sweet surprise,
Who is vision, and cloud, and curtain;
And I find a staff in the chastening rod,
While I rest in the mercies of my God.

ANGELS EVERYWHERE.

Who says there are no Angels, lies to God,
And soils his soul with an eternal shame,
Has had no wife, no mother;
He is a sexless thing, who never trod
The paths of human passion roofed with flame—
Nor walked with Christ our Brother;—
For Angels crowd the picture and the frame.
There is no little spot on sea or land
Where, robed in beauty, doth no Angel stand.

The earth is full of Angels; at each turn
Of every corner in market or in street,
They throng the field and city;
And when with pangs our aching bosoms burn,
One is close by with lovely if lame feet
To bear the cup of pity
And make the whole world with her presence sweet.
Ah, where they follow in the sufferer's wake,
All life is larger, richer, for their sake.

O not above is heaven, but here it lies,
With women of the hospitable breast,
Shaped but to shield and carry;
To shed the presence of great sanctities
By which our souls are glorified and blest,
Where Christ may home or tarry,
And for His piercèd brow find balm or rest;
Yes, at the gates of paradise or hell
Watch Angels fair, who guide or guard us well.

HEAVEN LIES WITHIN.

Heaven lies within me, God is ever near,
My windows open out with faith and fear
Into the glory of the great Eternal;
A little touch of trust, an unshed tear,
And I am one with all the sweet Supernal.
Ah, no delight is as that lovely dread,
Which draws a shining curtain round my bed,

I cannot miss it, everywhere it lies,
As the last pulse of those pure charities
Which link the good and true and fair together;
The soul of churches old and chivalries,
Heaven is the rock that heeds not wave or weather.
The adverse winds but nigher bring the Power,
That breathes alike in faded leaf and flower.

I look without, and there is naught but gloom;
I look within, and find unbounded room
For all the beauty and burden of my sorrow;
The thorns whereon I rest break into bloom,
Peace is to-day and joy is here to-morrow.
I may not hide from heaven, and mercies hang
Betwixt my soul and each thrice-blessed pang.

THE GATE OF HEAVEN.

Workers in iron have fashioned many a gate
And many a princely portal,
Whereat great warders might have stood in state;
They seemed to rise above the reach of Fate,
But still were merely mortal.
For I am ever watching at heaven's door,
And see the splendours glowing from its floor.

My room is roofed with angel wings outspread,
They wall me round when sleeping
And make a pillow for my troubled head;
My guardians bring me daily living bread,
I am in their safe keeping.
And sometimes do I catch a glorious gleam
Of Him, who is the Dream within the Dream.

It's but one step I know into the Light,
The Altar ever burning,
Where faith is one with vision in full sight;
And at the thought my weakness puts on might,
To its own home returning.
Though dreadful is its beauty in Love's place,
The shadow shines, I feel God's very Face.

THE WATCHERS.

When falleth sleep on every frame but mine,
I see stern Figures watching, watching lonely
And keeping off all evil from the shrine;
They guard the altar of my heart, and only
Attend to tasks divine.
They compass me around with awful wings,
And to their presence a strange glory clings.

They are the Hopes that followed me from birth
And stood between my soul and undreamed terrors,
Bad thoughts and throes that shake the very earth;
They smoothed my path, and turned my feet from errors
Or things of lesser worth.
So watching, watching, they may never sleep,
Nor have a moment when to rest and weep.

I may not see their faces, yet I know
They shine for ever with immortal beauty,
Which they about me like a blessing throw;
For they see God, and do for Him the duty
They share with Christ below.
Yes, watching, watching, in a vigil vast
They gather up the love that hath not past.

MY JEWELS.

My jewels are works of the knife, white scars
That the Saviour Himself hath written,
And to me they are bright as the midnight stars;
They raze with their wounding bounds and bars,
And for healing my flesh was smitten.
I felt, if forlorn, the nail and thorn,
By their rending I to new birth was born.

My jewels are stigmata these have left,
And I treasure not gains but losses,
For we keep the joys whereof all bereft;
And a sorrow escaped, is but a theft
From my pilgrim path of crosses.
Ah, I prize the stains of my heavy chains,
And my pearls and diamonds are but pains.

My jewels are cut with the biting blade,
They shine as a radiant morning
When it sheds in a moment the last shade;
For they do not alter, they cannot fade,
They cling like a bride's adorning.
For, whenever I feel the cruel steel,
I see Christ at my bedside serve and kneel.

MY BLESSINGS.

God's foremost gifts are just my hourly trials,
So friendly, so familiar, and so dear,
The sovereign Mercy that seems not to hear;
Withdrawals of my strength, the fond denials
Which only prove that then He is most near,
For I am never tempted, in His hour
Of chastening kindness, beyond my small power.

For with the stroke He comes Himself as Victim,
And lieth on the altar He hath made,
So for the brightness I see not the shade;
My very scourges yet the most afflict Him,
Departing treasures into glory fade.
I stand on Love, where I have ever stood,
For all my ills are with His Presence good.

Are seasons dark and dreadful? In the weather
He reigns and rules, and with His blessing thrilled
I trace in clouds the sunshine He hath willed;
For God with both is somehow linked together,
And in whatever happens is fulfilled.
The medicine that I shrink from bears His balm,
And in the tortured flesh He is sweet calm.

CHRIST UNIVERSAL.

Christ's voice is on the wind, He standeth strong
In tempests as they whirl brown leaves along,
From each He takes some glory wild or willing;
He who, at matins and at evensong,
Finds some fulfilling.
He wreaks Himself in the red heart of flame,
And in the rose's petal is the same.

O everywhere I see Him, and the sky
In rippling waves tells He is passing by,
The story of the Cross, the lands' rehearsal;
Each hill, each tree, is yet a Calvary—
Love universal.
The nails, that hang His likeness to the wall,
Pierce that dear Body on which hangeth all.

Christ's hand still holdeth up the human frame,
And stays my pilgrim steps though weak and lame,
I mark the beauty of the blessed stigma;
Or when I sink in depths of utter shame,
He reads the enigma.
And from His open wounds, that ruddy drip,
I reap repose and fairest fellowship.

MY BED.

The blessing of the gospel is not gladness
Alone, or empty life of vacant joy,
The curse of idleness and an empty toy;
For it is framed about with sweet of sadness,
And raiseth all the soul to rich employ.
So, if my lot seem often down in hell,
I know the Saviour there with me doth dwell.

A bed of fire He giveth me at seasons,
When Love would bid me share His lonely right
Of reigning in the darkness as the light;
Nor do I care to ask of Him the reasons,
When He is still the Beatific Sight.
He in the furnace walks with me, and bends
Resistance to new raptures and new ends.

It is enough to prove that Christ is nearer
Than any evil thing that clouds the sky,
And never yet hath passed a sufferer by;
For in my anguish heaven itself is clearer,
And roots its pillars in adversity.
Yea, heaven's foundations would not stand so well,
Had they not pierced and conquered lowest hell.

MY SACRAMENTAL LIFE.

The bread I ate, the early cup first taken,
They were the worship of my prison pent
Wherein my heart to the Eternal went;
I sometimes thought the room itself was shaken,
In the great Mystery of the Sacrament.
I saw the sacred chalice in my cup,
The broken bread was Christ there opened up.

Yea, and I felt each meal was an oblation,
The gift of God to Him returned, that drew
The double sweet of morn and evening dew;
Each morsel was a crumb of revelation,
Inspiring me to praises old and new.
No mouthful but was a communion, knit
By awful sanctions to the Infinite.

The Hosts of Heaven about me seemed to muster,
I heard the tramp of multitudinous feet,
That knew the solemn act they came to greet;
Each ray of light put on a reverend lustre,
As though the seen and unseen there would meet.
God was at work, His sanctifying will
Was thus creating and transforming still.

HOLINESS TO THE LORD.

There's not one little inch of ground whereon
I have not prayed—to God unconsecrated,
Nor where the soul hath fought no Marathon;
For I have striven with beasts of Babylon,
All to the Cross and Christ is dedicated.
Where have I not for gladness humbly wept,
And bowed at vigils I alone have kept?

The very vessels of my chamber, such
As are for sordid use to Him were holy,
And did reflect a higher tone and touch;
They were accepted because I loved so much,
And to the stars is lifted faith if lowly.
The One who gave us songs in night and rest
Hath blest them, and they are for ever blest.

The pots and bells, as in the prophet's day,
When offered up to Him assumed fresh glory,
They marked the Crucified's redeeming way;
And of themselves they also seemed to pray,
Telling in their poor fashion the great Story.
The air I drank, the circuit that I trod,
Seemed fragrant with the breath divine of God.

NOTHING COMMON.

Nothing is common now, or coarse or mean,
My basin, towel, sponge, and all my vesture
Are used by Christ, who maketh vile things clean;
Touched by the Hand whereon the world doth lean,
These in due season show His lightest gesture.
He is the blessing gained, He is the loss,
And everywhere I see the shadowed Cross.

My bedroom shoes but prove His piercèd Feet,
The jewel marks of nails, the bitter branding
Whereof the carpet is a reflex sweet;
My Lord, my Life, at every turn I meet,
The very stains tell where my Love was standing.
No corner but is populous with Him,
And even the dark from glory groweth dim.

I feel His kiss laid on each loathsome sore,
My wounds are His and gathered to His Greatness
Which out of trifles ever waxeth more;
It is His Flesh with many a bleeding pore,
I rest in His own infinite sedateness.
A temple, a palace mine—yea, heaven I hold,
And whatsoe'er Christ toucheth turns to gold.

CHRIST THE FIRE.

I see Christ in the flames, He walks a splendour
Within the candles and each glowing spire;
He who is all Delight and all Desire;
And when I yield to Him my heart's surrender,
I know He is Himself the burning Fire.
Refining what He meets and what is near,
He is the Love that cometh out of Fear.

Each morning I feel washed in waves consuming,
They purge me from the accruing soil and sin
Even though it be no deeper than the skin;
And dawn is but the Saviour's dear illuming,
Wherewith a better offering to begin.
He is the kindled wood upon the hearth,
And by His Passion is renewed the earth.

For whoso would be saved must pass the testing
Ordeal, and go through the most dreadful Fire,
He who serves God without the thought of hire;
In storm and trial only is the resting,
Which God and man and everything require.
Where is repose, save in perfected toil
And when we are the sacrificial oil?

MY GUARDIAN ANGELS.

They have no weapons, their eyes are dim
With a sorrow they cannot utter,
And they never come to an idle whim;
But their strength is of sworded Cherubim,
And they feel the lone heart's least flutter.
In my fettered state they are more than Fate,
For they keep my prison and guard the gate.

They only are Cares I have lived with long,
Who know me and every weakness,
Dear sadnesses love hath turned to song;
And have held me back when a-straying wrong,
Sheer victors from very meekness.
But I would not will, for their frailty still,
Was an armed host with its thunder thrill.

They never sleep, they have wondrous ways,
And their breath is so often bitter,
When they veil with a cloud the brightest days;
But it's then the eternal music plays,
In the storm or the swallow's twitter.
In each wrinkled line is a hard-won shrine,
And their faces grave have a Grace Divine!

MY WEALTH.

There are those with treasures of gems and gold,
Fair forms in white statued niches,
With houses and lands and stores untold;
But mine is a beauty manifold,
And a hoard of more secret riches.
They are visions of light that come at night,
And reveal a fresh universe broad and bright.

I have ever the joy of the splendid dream
That dawns in the hour of shadows,
With a human face and a hidden gleam;
It reflects all the rays of star and stream,
And the glory of wide green meadows.
There is murmur of bees among centuried trees,
And the distant wash as of summer seas.

And the cloisters that open in the dark,
The cathedrals grey and mellow,
Are sweet with a music to which I hark;
And blent with the lilt of the soaring lark,
When the sunbeam is its fellow.
O it's wealth of that fond and heavenly bond,
When it comes to me from the Great Beyond.

ALL GOD.

I can see nothing but my Lord, and often
My chamber and its furniture have fled,
And there is neither wall nor roof nor bed;
The ancient outlines fade away, and soften
Into the arms of Him who is our Head.
He is the room, my table and my chair,
And everything in Him looks fresh and fair.

The mirror is His very Face, and shineth
With splendour that no earthly glass can show,
It is a glimpse of heaven with Love aglow;
The squalid things of Nature He refineth,
There is no more an upper and below.
God fills each crevice, and the tiniest crack
Just in its measure gives His glory back.

I cannot turn or even raise a finger
That doth not touch and tremble with His Life,
I feel His pressure in the surgeon's knife;
In ecstasy when I would dare to linger,
The flesh and spirit are no more at strife.
Christ is my soul, my body, and my all,
And when I faint, on Him I only fall.

THE DIVINE DRUDGE.

God waits on me a Drudge, He brings me treasure
Vaster than all the world, because He bears
Himself, and in my kingdom's shadow shares;
And while He serves, I find a holy leisure
From suffering and the crosses of my cares.
He girds Himself and washeth my soiled feet
Till all the room is with His Presence sweet.

He speaks unto me, soft low accents hidden
And hushed from others, but I know His Voice
That makes the desert of my heart rejoice;
It blossoms like the rose, and though storm-ridden
By doubts and fears I need no lesser choice.
He bathes me in the waters, that still flow
Forth from His broken Heart on hearts below.

God is my Saviour, and the more of labour
I seek from Him I cannot fear to ask,
He is the Toiler and He is the Task;
When I from friends am far, He is next Neighbour,
And in the sunshine of His work I bask.
Ah, often in the triumph of my Trust
I know He is the Broom, the very Dust.

MY KINGSHIP.

I sit a sceptred King as on a throne
Aloft in anguish and in grief alone,
While pangs like spear-points bristle;
And my companions are the fangèd stone,
The cruel thorn and thistle.
But yet there is a majesty in pain,
And he who conquers this doth truly reign.

The royal robe of misery, who shall tell
Its power and passion, with the master spell
That spurns misgivings under?
I am at times a spirit lost in hell,
But from it wrest rich plunder.
Yea, out of torturning sickness comes the seat
Where God and man as sovereigns rule and meet.

I would not change my suffering for a bed
Of roses with no thorn to pierce my head,
Without the joy of sorrow;
For to the Crucified I have been wed,
Who is To-day, To-morrow.
I could not see the sun within the sky
Unless I viewed it all from Calvary.

PRAYERS AND PRAISES.

My prayers go forth, like snow-white doves, that carry
With them the incense of the earth, and all
That is confession ere it hears the call;
They mount on climbing plumes that may not tarry,
As perfumes from an opening flower they fall.
They people each poor vacancy or breach,
And multiply and supplement my reach.

I sail upon their wings, and upward lifted
Feel one with all the holiest and the strong,
With the great Life that bears the world along;
Wall, roof, and closing cloud alike are rifted
By these from matins unto evensong.
The fragrance of wild blossoms with them speeds,
A satisfaction though in silent needs.

But in their very birth my prayers are praises,
If selfish in the outset, they must end
With adoration as they still ascend;
Each on the other in an arch it raises,
To meet the heavens, which downward to them bend.
I had not dared to offer up one plea,
That found no place in Love's unbounded sea.

HELPLESS AND HELPED.

I have no voice, no hands, but angels are
My servants ready in the hour that offers
Occasion for them to surmount each bar;
My wingèd feet, they bring me from afar
Pure gold and jewels to enrich my coffers.
In some fond sweetness every day is born,
And when I wake it seems creation's morn.

They smooth my pillow with a smiling look,
That turns rough creases into petaled roses
And lights my chamber to the darkest nook;
Yea, like the message of the Holy Book,
Their ministry of kindness round me closes.
The unuttered want is granted ere I know
My need, they parry pain's most bitter blow.

Helpless myself, I see the hindrance turn
To something calm and comforting, a ladder
Upraised to heaven for which I sorely yearn;
The obstacles are stepping-stones; I learn
From them the secrets, which make spirits gladder.
My heart an altar is, and glows with flame
That burneth and consumes this mortal frame.

LIGHT OF THE WORLD.

Light of the world, the very sun and moon
Are dim to that dear shining,
Which in my darkness is a dazzling boon;
These blind feet know the vision cometh soon,
And gives a sweeter shrining.
Ah, ere I cry blank walls in pity break,
The gloom is more than splendour for Thy sake.

Night is no night to Thee, clearer than day
It dawneth into blessing;
The shadows mark but milestones on the way
Where I must tarry while I sing or pray,
They are Thine arms caressing.
Thou dost a moment hide me in Thy Breast,
To learn the beauty of a heart at rest.

Light of the world, there is no earthly cloud
Can raise a severing curtain
Between me and Thy Love in mercy bowed;
A wedding robe shapes from the funeral shroud,
All life is glory certain.
Now I am filled with something more than sight,
And every chamber of my soul is light.

GOD'S CANDLE.

My candle the Shechinah is; I mark
The rainbow of the Throne about it,
Resplendent in the mystery of the dark;
While angel voices bid me hush and hark,
God is my lamp—there's none without it.
The ministering hand, that makes my bed,
Is that whereby the sun and moon are sped.

My very prayers and thoughts are angels bent
On deeds of beauty and of kindness,
They cannot be in their own glory pent;
But go on paths of light and pity sent,
Bodied in mercy to our blindness.
The curtained spark, the secret glow-worm ray,
Is but the passage of my Lord's highway.

It spreads around me as a wall of fire
No evil thing can pass or enter,
Where pure delight is one with pure desire;
And only they who serve in white attire
Can see the Cross, that is the centre.
Infinity is crowded in the niche,
That with the eternal is enclosed and rich.

THE CLOUD.

The cloud is but a curtain, lest the glory
Should dazzle and overwhelm the suffering saints,
Exceeding bliss at which the spirit faints;
His sanctuary veil that hides Heaven's lower storey,
The mortal mist which tones but never taints.
And from it come the Vision and the Voice,
That bid us at the darkest hour rejoice.

Ah, had we learnt the habit of believing,
The earthly vapour would arise and pass
As but a moment's shadow on a glass:
There would be no more doubt, no longer grieving,
No room for one misgiving, one alas.
Our hope and refuge would be then the rod,
And all that hurteth flesh the hand of God.

The cloud is smoke that riseth from the altar
Whereon not we but Christ hath ever lain,
Who is in endless crucifixion slain;
How shall we fly from agony, or falter
When it is He who bears our lightest pain?
I cannot see the darkness, for the flame
That shines throughout, and showeth Love the same.

GOD'S MERCY.

God's mercy is the clearest when my sky
Looks darkest, ere He asks repentance
He hath forgiven and Love is passing by;
Before I call He answers to my cry,
Petwixt the judgement and the sentence.
I feel the fetters are His holding hands,
And suffering but my long-desired demands.

My narrow chamber broadens out when He
Betrays His presence with more burdens,
And in their crushing weight I am most free;
Until pain's blindness fell, I could not see
That all my griefs were His best guerdons.
But now I know that, at my slightest ache,
He sorrows and my troubles on Him break.

He is my nurse and doctor; of His cup
I daily drink; though bitternesses harden,
Sweet is each draught, each cross that riseth up;
And soon with Him I shall for ever sup;
To find the end is but a fuller pardon.
I do not beg the shadows yet should flee,
But just to be assured God is with me.

THE DYING YEAR.

It's but the old and worn that dies and passes,
The soul is greater than the imprisoning flesh
Which weaves about it but a mortal mesh;
Die not the green or glory on lush grasses,
They only fade to shine elsewhere afresh.
And were our eyes not holden, we should mark
Eternal beauty in the deepest dark.

Here as I lie and languish on the pillows
That build for me a temple fine and fair,
I meet the message of a larger air;
The balm that sweetest is in swelling billows,
The wounds that rend the body to repair.
The purifying strokes, the stripes that heal,
What are they but God's sanctifying seal?

Yet nothing dies, but all is surely turning
To something better than hath been of yore,
The crushing kills the dross and leaves the ore;
God's Love is just a fire for ever burning,
The fiercer flame but glorifies the more.
There were no riches were there no dear loss,
There is no shade except the enshrining Cross.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

The birthday of the world, of all and mine
Is every dawn that makes the shadow shine
And brings a glory;
The faith can turn the very dust divine,
And in each action read the Gospel story.
Shall worship be
Alone in shrines, and not in hearts set free?

For Christ is born again within the breast
That opens to Him as a gracious Guest,
And does Him honour;
There is no mother or maid by Him possest,
Who is not thereby crowned a sweet Madonna.
The Spirit speaks
Always to spirit, on the virgin peaks.

Yea, all that have in any good a part
If man or woman, in their life or art,
Are big with beauty;
The baby Christ is at each loving heart
That works with God and does some simple duty.
In labour or play,
That takes in God, it's ever Christmas Day.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

The many years of Nature ever bring
Fresh wants and only frailer weakness,
But spiritual stages laugh and sing;
The older then the younger is the wing,
That fashions might from abject meekness.
And every day is New Year's Day, that draws
A greater mastery over loves and laws.

In my sick-chamber, as the body grows
Feebler, the force of earth's green planet
To me from hidden fountains alway flows;
A wind from heaven upon me breathes, and blows
My spirit on since time began it.
And, as my Saviour's footstep passeth by,
I feel poured in me full eternity.

Beneath the dead leaves lie the summer shoots,
And beats the Spring's new glory under
Apparent death that holds in life its roots;
I see behind corruption precious fruits,
Each grave in new birth breaks asunder.
The promise of an overwhelming power
Thrills through the flesh, that opens like a flower.

EARTH'S CRADLE-SONG.

Sometimes in the noiseless hours,
When the shades are shyly flocking,
I am one with stars and flowers;
Then I prove my baby powers,
In a cradle dimly rocking.
Mary sings, I know not why,
Lulla lulla lullaby.

I am born again, and she
Takes me of her own dear pleasure,
Helpless and divinely free;
Mary is the world to me,
And I am her dearest treasure.
Mary sings, I know not why,
Lulla lulla lullaby.

Sheltered from each shock of harm
While I rest in her sweet folding,
Shielded by that soft white arm;
There I guess the secret charm
Of all lands, and their upholding.
Mary sings, I know not why,
Lulla lulla lullaby.

What doth Little Mary say,
She who Maiden is and Mother
In her gentle joyous way,
Turning night itself to day,
Till I feel night is my brother?
Mary sings, I know not why,
Lulla lulla lullaby.

Yes, the Baby Christ am I,
Born to be a benediction,
When I live and when I die;
Bound in what doth greatly tie
God and man, by crucifixion.
Mary sings, I know know why,
Lulla lulla lullaby.

Ah, I see that Mary's breath
Bringeth life and bringeth death—
Is earth's cradle-song of love,
For the happy heaven above
And for happy earth beneath.