 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Herb Benedict
When wayside favourites pink and blue
Attract the eye with mingling hue,
A modest flower comes forth to view,
Scant notice winning;
Few pause a moment to enquire
Its name, and fewer to admire
The texture plain of its attire
And homely spinning.
Attract the eye with mingling hue,
A modest flower comes forth to view,
Scant notice winning;
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Its name, and fewer to admire
The texture plain of its attire
And homely spinning.
As one by one the flowers we greet
Which in our children's garlands meet,
It is not seen amid the sweet
Familiar faces;
Such honour now it never gains—
All disregarded it remains
In hedgerows, and in dusty lanes,
Woods and waste places.
Which in our children's garlands meet,
It is not seen amid the sweet
Familiar faces;
Such honour now it never gains—
All disregarded it remains
In hedgerows, and in dusty lanes,
Woods and waste places.
Not always so; in days of yore
A crown of holiness it wore
And high symbolic meaning bore
And name of blessing;
And then its dignity was such
Men could not honour it too much
Or pluck it with too soft a touch
Of kind caressing.
A crown of holiness it wore
And high symbolic meaning bore
And name of blessing;
And then its dignity was such
Men could not honour it too much
Or pluck it with too soft a touch
Of kind caressing.
For gifted with a higher dower
Than fairest bloom of fading flower,
To thoughts beyond the passing hour
Its form invited;
And like a wayside homily,
Its trefoil leaves taught men to see
The wonder of the Sacred Three
In One united.
Than fairest bloom of fading flower,
To thoughts beyond the passing hour
Its form invited;
And like a wayside homily,
Its trefoil leaves taught men to see
The wonder of the Sacred Three
In One united.
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Thus blest with a peculiar grace
The Benedict held up its face
Amongst the flowers, and found a place
In garlands vernal;
Nor in such transient wreaths alone—
For sculptors copied it in stone,
And in our Minsters it has grown
In wreaths eternal.
The Benedict held up its face
Amongst the flowers, and found a place
In garlands vernal;
Nor in such transient wreaths alone—
For sculptors copied it in stone,
And in our Minsters it has grown
In wreaths eternal.
Where organ-music rolls along
To anthem high and holy song,
It clusters round the pillars strong
Their crown adorning;
And while it seems to join the praise
And “Holy, holy, holy” raise,
What recks it of these evil days
And the world's scorning!
To anthem high and holy song,
It clusters round the pillars strong
Their crown adorning;
And while it seems to join the praise
And “Holy, holy, holy” raise,
What recks it of these evil days
And the world's scorning!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |