And though our eyes are ever blest
His face unveil'd to see,
He comes to you a hidden guest,
To make you blest as we.
Then, little children, fear ye not
To join our joyous strain;
And sing the Lamb without a spot
On Calvary's mountain slain."
19. The London Watercress Girl.
BEFORE the winter's day had dawn'd,
When London streets were still,
And through the close-shut window-frame
The morning air came chill,
A barefoot child pass'd down the street,
With cresses on her head;
And as her mother paus'd to kneel,
With wond'ring look she said:
"O mother! will you tell me why,
When we pass by this way,
You fold your hands and bend the knee
As if you stopp'd to pray?
The street is still,-except ourselves
No creature can I see;
And surely to these empty walls
You would not bend the knee?"
"These are no empty walls, my child,"
That mother made reply;
"The temple of the Lord of hosts
We now are passing by.
I cannot see him, but I know
That angels kneel and gaze
Around the altar, where for us
In patient love he stays.
Great Lord, what wondrous love was thine
To choose this poor abode!
Ah, dearest child-believe it well,-
This church contains our God."
Then child and mother bow'd again
In that cold silent street,
And went once more upon their way
With shoeless, shiv'ring feet.
20. The Visit to the Image of
Mary.
COME let us here repose, and gaze
On Mary's face awhile;
We wander to and fro all day,
And now we want her smile.
The godless look of things without,
Oh, how it drives us here,
To prize with grateful hearts the bliss
of finding Mary near!
The very walls we pass each day
Cry out their impious tale;
And blasphemies are heard that make
The stoutest spirit quail.
Oh, leave we, then, the crowded streets,
Their noise and dust and glare;
We've thought and talk'd and sinn'd since morn,
We need a moment's prayer.
A prayer breath'd forth will calm the soul;
Faith lifts the veil, and we,
Children of Mary, see her star
Shine o'er the restless sea.
We gaze with faith's rejoicing eye
On what seemed dark erewhile;
Then to the world and home we bear
The brightness of her smile.
21. How fleeting all my pleasures
seem!
How fleeting all my pleasures seem!
No joy in them I find;
They pass like morning's early beam,
And leave no trace behind.
That lily nurs'd with fond delight,
So fragrant and so fair,
Struck down, alas! by sudden blight,
It dies, despite my care.
And all the bright and sunny flowers
I've watch'd from day to day,
They bloom their few short summer hours,
And then they fade away.
Yet, as they fade and disappear,
Methinks I hear them cry,
"Dear little friend, so young and fair,
Remember you must die."
Ah, yes! and may I on that day,
When Jesus calls me hence,
Like my fair lily, pass away
In spotless innocence.
And like the rose whose sweets outlive
Its gay and fleeting bloom, May I fair virtue's odour give E'en from the silent tomb.
'TWAS on the night the Lord was born,
When through the festive town
A stranger child, and all forlorn,
Went wandering up and down.
At every house he stopp'd to gaze,
Where, hung with stars of light,
The Christmas-tree shot forth its rays
Through many a window bright.
Then wept the child, "Alas for me,
Here wandering all alone!
To-night all have their Christmas-tree,
But I-poor I-have none !
I too have play'd round such at home,
With sisters hand in hand;
And now a stranger child I roam,
Unpitied in the land.
"No loving smile awaits me now,
O holy Christ and dear;
Except thou love me, only thou,
I am forgotten here."
He spoke, when lo, with wand of light
And voice how heavenly sweet,
Another child, all rob'd in white,
Came gliding up the street.
"The holy Christ," he said, "am I,
A child the same as thee;
If all forget and pass thee by,
Thou'rt not forgot by me.
And I myself for thee will raise
A tree so full of light,
That those in yonder halls which blaze
Shall seem to fade from sight.
While yet he speaks, from earth to sky
A golden tree had sprung,
With stars in clust'ring radiancy
Amid its branches hung.
How near and yet how far it seem'd,
How bath'd in floods of light;
The child stood near and thought he dream'd, It look'd so wondrous bright.
He thought he dream'd, while from above
The angels o'er him smil'd,
And gently stretched their arms in love
Towards the stranger child.
They lift, they bear him from the ground,
Up through the shining space;
And now the outcast one has found
With Christ his resting-place.
The Landing of
St. Augustine in Britain.
THE heathen monarch sits enthron'd
In all his pomp and pride,
With twice ten thousand men at arms
Assembled at his side.
|