toes
Daintily peeping, as she goes,
Her long nightgown from under.
The varied mien, the questioning look
Were worth a picture; but she took
No notice of their wonder.
They made a path, and she went through;
She had her little chair in view
Close by the chimney-corner;
She turned, sat down before them all,
Stately as princess at a ball,
And silent as a mourner.
Then looking closer yet, they spy
What mazedness hid from every eye
As ghost-like she came creeping:
They see that though sweet little Rose
Her settled way unerring goes,
Plainly the child is sleeping.
“Play on, sing on,” the mother said;
“Oft music draws her from her bed.”—
Dumb Echo, she sat listening;
Over her face the sweet concent
Like winds o’er placid waters went,
Her cheeks like eyes were glistening.
Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold
Like long grass drooping on the wold
Her sightless head is bending;
She sits all ears, and drinks her fill,
Then rising goes, sedate and still,
On silent white feet wending.
Surely, while she was listening so,
Glad thoughts in her went to and fro
Preparing her ’gainst sorrow,
And ripening faith for that sure day
When earnest first looks out of play,
And thought out of to-morrow.
She will not know from what fair skies
Troop hopes to front anxieties—
In what far fields they gather,
Until she knows that even in sleep,
Yea, in the dark of trouble deep,
The child is with the Father.
A Dream of Waking
A child was born in sin and shame,
Wronged by his very birth,
Without a home, without a name,
One over in the earth.
No wifely triumph he inspired,
Allayed no husband’s fear;
Intruder bare, whom none desired,
He had a welcome drear.
Heaven’s beggar, all but turned adrift
For knocking at earth’s gate,
His mother, like an evil gift,
Shunned him with sickly hate.
And now the mistress on her knee
The unloved baby bore,
The while the servant sullenly
Prepared to leave her door.
Her eggs are dear to mother-dove,
Her chickens to the hen;
All young ones bring with them their love,
Of sheep, or goats, or men!
This one lone child shall not have come
In vain for love to seek:
Let mother’s hardened heart be dumb,
A sister-babe will speak!
“Mother, keep baby—keep him so;
Don’t let him go away.”
“But, darling, if his mother go,
Poor baby cannot stay.”
“He’s crying, mother: don’t you see
He wants to stay with you?”
“No, child; he does not care for me.”
“Do keep him, mother—do.”
“For his own mother he would cry;
He’s hungry now, I think.”
“Give him to me, and let me try
If I can make him drink.”
“Susan would hurt him! Mother will
Let the poor baby stay?”
Her mother’s heart grew sore, but still
Baby must go away!
The red lip trembled; the slow tears
Came darkening in her eyes;
Pressed on her heart a weight of fears
That sought not ease in cries.
’Twas torture—must not be endured!—
A too outrageous grief!
Was there an ill could not be cured?
She would find some relief!
All round her universe she pried:
No dawn began to break:
In prophet-agony she cried—
“Mother! when shall we wake?”
O insight born of torture’s might!—
Such grief can only seem.
Rise o’er the hills, eternal light,
And melt the earthly dream.
A Meditation of St. Eligius
Queen Mary one day Jesus sent
To fetch some water, legends tell;
The little boy, obedient,
Drew a full pitcher from the well;
But as he raised it to his head,
The water lipping with the rim,
The handle broke, and all was shed
Upon the stones about the brim.
His cloak upon the ground he laid
And in it gathered up the pool;2
Obedient there the water stayed,
And home he bore it plentiful.
Eligius said, “Tis fabled ill:
The hands that all the world control,
Had here been room for miracle,
Had made his mother’s pitcher whole!
“Still, some few drops for thirsty need
A poor invention even, when told
In love of thee the Truth indeed,
Like broken pitcher yet may hold:
“Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt:
I thought to bear the pitcher high;
Upon the shining stones of guilt
I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!
“ ‘Master,’ I cried, ‘no man will drink,
No human thirst will e’er be stilled
Through me, who sit upon the brink,
My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!’
“ ‘What will they do I waiting left?
They looked to me to bring thy law!
The well is deep, and, sin-bereft,
I nothing have wherewith to draw!’ ”
“But as I sat in evil plight,
With dry parched heart and sickened brain,
Uprose in me the water bright,
Thou gavest me thyself again!”
Hymn for a Sick Girl
Father, in the dark I lay,
Thirsting for the light,
Helpless, but for hope alway
In thy father-might.
Out of darkness came the morn,
Out of death came life,
I, and faith, and hope, new-born,
Out of moaning strife!
So, one morning yet more fair,
I shall, joyous-brave,
Sudden breathing loftier air,
Triumph o’er the grave.
Though this feeble body lie
Underneath the ground,
Wide awake, not sleeping, I
Shall in him be found.
But a morn yet fairer must
Quell this inner gloom—
Resurrection from the dust
Of a deeper tomb!
Father, wake thy little child;
Give me bread and wine
Till my spirit undefiled
Rise and live in thine.
A Christmas Carol for 1862
The Year of the Trouble in Lancashire
The skies are pale, the trees are stiff,
The earth is dull and old;
The frost is glittering as if
The very sun were cold.
And hunger fell is joined with frost,
To make men thin and wan:
Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost;
Be born, O child of man.
The children cry, the women shake,
The strong men stare about;
They sleep when they should be awake,
They wake ere night is out.
For they have lost their heritage—
No sweat is on their brow:
Come, babe, and bring them work and wage;
Be born, and save us now.
Across the sea, beyond our sight,
Roars on the fierce debate;
The men go down in bloody fight,
The women weep and hate;
And in the right be which that may,
Surely the strife is long!
Come, son of man,
