ROY
Our Prince has gone to his inheritance! Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile, Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance, And try the rough ways of the world awhile?
Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress, Would he not hasten to his own again? Why should he bear its labor and duress, And all the untold burden of its pain?
Or what if from the golden palace gate The king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray? Would he not send his lords of high estate To lead him back ere fell the close of day?
Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals saw The fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance, And sent his messengers of love and law To bear him home to his inheritance!
THE PAINTER’S PRAYER
“NEC ME PRÆTERMITTAS, DOMINE!”
(An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt’s
“Light of the World.”)
“Nay,” he said, “it is not done! At to-morrow’s set of sun Come again, if you would see What the finished thought may be.” Straight they went. The heavy door On its hinges swung once more, As within the studio dim Eye and heart took heed of Him!
How the Presence filled the room, Brightening all its dusky gloom! Saints and martyrs turned their eyes From the hills of Paradise; Rapt in holy ecstasy, Mary smiled her Son to see, Letting all her lilies fall At His feet—the Lord of all!
But the painter bowed his head, Lost in wonder and in dread, And as at a holy shrine Knelt before the form divine. All had passed—the pride, the power, Of the soul’s creative hour— Exaltation’s soaring flight To the spirit’s loftiest height.
Had he dared to paint the Lord? Dared to paint the Christ, the Word? Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin! Ah, the shame his soul within! Saints might turn on him their eyes From the hills of Paradise, But the painter could not brook On that pictured face to look.
Yet the form was grand and fair, Fit to move a world to prayer; God like in its strength and stress, Human in its tenderness. From it streamed the Light divine, O’er it drooped the heavenly vine, And beneath the bending spray Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way!
Suddenly with eager hold, Back he swept the curtain’s fold, Letting all the sunset glow O’er the living canvas flow. Surely then the wondrous eyes Met his own in tenderest wise, And the Lord Christ, half revealed, Smiled upon him as he kneeled!
Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought, Up he brush and palette caught, And where deepest shade was thrown Set one sign for God alone! Years have passed—but, even yet, Where the massive frame is set You may find these words: “Nec me Prætermittas, Domine!”
“Neither pass me by, O Lord!” Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word, Low we bow before thy feet, Thy remembrance to entreat! In our soul’s most secret place, For no eye but thine to trace, Lo! this prayer we write: “Nec me Prætermittas, Domine!”
FROM EXILE
Paris, September 3, 1879
(A Mother speaks)
Ah, dear God, when will it be day? I cannot sleep, I cannot pray. Tossing, I watch the silent stars Mount up from the horizon bars: Orion with his flaming sword, Proud chieftain of the glorious horde; Auriga up the lofty arch Pursuing still his stately march— So patient and so calm are they. Ah, dear God! when will it be day?
O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear A cock crow through the silence clear! The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east, And, afar off, I catch the least Low murmur of the city’s stir As she shakes off the dreams of her! List! there’s a sound of hurrying feet Far down below me in the street. Thank God! the weary night is past, The morning comes—’tis day at last.
Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise! The sun is up, it gilds the skies. She does not stir. The young sleep sound As dead men in their graves profound. Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste! To-day there is no time to waste. Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair. Hand me the glass. Once I was fair As thou art. Now I look so old It seems my death-knell should be tolled.
Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale? Like a white ghost, so wan and frail? Well, that’s not strange. All night I lay Waiting and watching for the day. But—there! I’ll drink it; it may make My cheeks burn brighter for his sake Who comes to-day. My boy! my boy! How can I bear the unwonted joy? I, who for eight long years have wept While happier mothers smiling slept; While others decked their sons first-born For dance, or fête, or bridal morn, Or proudly smiled to see them stand The stateliest pillars of the land! For he, so gallant and so gay, As young and debonair as they, My beautiful, brave boy, my life, Went down in the unequal strife! The right or wrong? Oh, what care I? The good God judgeth up on high.
And now He gives him back to me! I tremble so—I scarce can see. How full the streets are! I will wait His coming here beside this gate, From which I watched him as he went, Eight years ago, to banishment. Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when You see a band of stalwart men, With one fair boy among them—one With bright hair shining in the sun, Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes, Blue as the blue of summer skies. My boy! my boy!—Why come they not? O Son of God! hast Thou forgot Thy Mother’s agony? Yet she, Was she not stronger far than we, We common mothers? Could she know From her far heights such pain and woe?— Run farther down the street, and see If they’re not coming, Rosalie!
Mother of Christ! how lag the hours! What? just beyond the convent towers, And coming straight this way? O heart, Be still and strong, and bear thy part, Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear Above the city’s hum the near Slow tread of marching feet; I see— Nay, I can not see, Rosalie; Your eyes are younger. Is he there, My Antoine, with his sunny hair? It is like gold; it shines in the sun: Surely you see it? What? Not one— Not one bright head? All old, old men, Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then He has not come—he is ill, or dead! O God, that I were in thy stead, My son! my son! Who touches me? Your pardon, sir. I am not she For whom you look. Go farther on Ere yet the daylight shall be gone.
‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’ You? You are not he—my Antoine! You— A bowed, gray-bearded man, while he Was a mere boy who went from me, Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir. God bless you! Soon you will find her For whom you seek. But I—ah, I— Still must I call and none reply! You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son! Thou art mine own, my banished one!