Bethlehem
The Angels
Soft and slow, soft and slow,
With angels’ wings of fire and snow,
To rock Him gently to and fro.
Fire to stay the chill at night,
Snow to cool the noonday bright;
And overhead His star’s alight.
Pale and sweet, pale and sweet,
Maid Mary keeps her vigil meet,
While Joseph waits with patient feet.
Mary’s love for soft embrace,
Joseph’s strength to guard the place.
Lo! from the East Kings ride apace.
Gold and myrrh, gold and myrrh,
Frankincense for harbinger,
Myrrh to make His sepulchre.
Roses white and roses red,
Thorns arrayed for His dear Head.
Hail! hail! Wise Men who seek His bed
Joseph
Little One, Little One, Saviour and Child,
Father and Mother, my Husband and Son;
Born of the lily, the maid undefiled,
Babe of my Love, the Beatified One.
Little One, Little One, Master and Lord,
Kings of the Earth come, desiring Thy Face;
I, Thy poor servitor, lowly afford
All that my life holds, for all is Thy Grace.
Little One, Little One, God over all,
Earth is thy footstool, and Heav’n is Thy throne:
Joseph the carpenter, prostrate I fall;
Praise thee, adore Thee, and claim Thee mine own.
Maid Mary
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, my heart’s delight,
The myrrh between my breasts at night,
My little Rose, my Lily white,
My Babe for whom the star’s alight.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, God’s only Son,
Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun;
Desire of nations, Promised One
When Eve was first by sin undone.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, the whole world’s Child!
Born of each heart that’s undefiled,
Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild,
And in the arms of Love asiled.
Babe, dear Babe!
My crown of glory, sorrow’s sword,
My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord,
My Saviour and my great Reward;
My little Son, my Babe adored.
The Three Kings
Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King!
To Thy dear Feet
Our offerings meet
With bended knee we bring;
O mighty baby King,
Accept the offering.
First King
Lord, I stoop low
My head of snow,
Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least!
And swing the censer for the Priest,
The Priest with hands upraised to bless,
The Priest of this world’s bitterness.
As I stoop low
My head of snow,
Bless me, O Priest, before I go.
Second King
Behold me, King!
A man of might,
Who rules dominions infinite;
Strong in the harvest of the years,
And one who counts no kings as peers.
O little King,
Behold my crown!
I lay it down,
And bow before Thy lowly bed
My all unworthy uncrowned head,
For I am naught and Thou art All.
And Thou shalt climb a throne set high,
Between sad earth and silent sky,
Thereon to agonize and die;
And at Thy Feet the world shall fall.
Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King,
Behold the world’s imagining!
Third King
Out of the shadow of the night
I come, led by the starshine bright,
With broken heart to bring to Thee
The fruit of Thine Epiphany,
The gift my fellows send by me,
The myrrh to bed Thine agony.
I set it here beneath Thy Feet,
In token of Death’s great defeat;
And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife;
And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life.
All hail! All hail the Virgin’s Son!
All hail! Thou little helpless One!
All hail! Thou King upon the Tree!
All hail! The Babe on Mary’s knee,
The centre of all mystery!
All Souls’ Day in a German Town
The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs
Whispers the world’s infirmities,
Whispers the tale of the waning years,
While slow mists gather in shrouding tears
On All Souls’ Day; and the bells are slow
In steeple and tower. Sad folk go
Away from the township, past the mill,
And mount the slope of a grassy hill
Carved into terraces broad and steep,
To the inn where wearied travellers sleep,
Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows,
And no man stirs in his long repose.
They wend their way past the haunts of life,
Father and daughter, grandmother, wife,
To deck with candle and deathless cross,
The house which holds their dearest loss.
I, who stand on the crest of the hill,
Watch how beneath me, busied still,
The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers.
Awhile the veil of the twilight hours
Falls softly, softly, over the hill,
Shadows the cross:—creeps on until
Swiftly upon us is flung the dark.
Then, as if lit by a sudden spark,
Each grave is vivid with points of light,
Earth is as Heaven’s mirror to-night;
The air is still as a spirit’s breath,
The lights burn bright in the realm of Death.
Then silent the mourners mourning go,
Wending their way to the church below;
While the bells toll out to bid them speed,
With eager Pater and prayerful bead,
The souls of the dead, whose bodies still
Lie in the churchyard under the hill;
While they wait and wonder in Paradise,
And gaze on the dawning mysteries,
Praying for us in our hours of need;
For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead
Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.
Rivers and Streams
Running water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for drooping flowers; and they who wander in the garden of God with listening ears learn of its many voices.
When the strain of a working day has left me weary, perhaps troubled and perplexed, I find my way to the river. I step into a boat and pull up stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and then I make fast to the old alder-stump where last year the reed-piper nested, and lie back in the stern and think.
The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the current; the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side eddies, of course, and little disturbing whirlpools near the big stones, but they are all gathered into the broad sweep of the stream, carried down to the great catholic sea. And while I listen to the murmur of the water and watch its quiet strength the day’s wrinkles are smoothed out of my face; and at last the river bears me homeward rested and at peace.
There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart from the world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore heart. Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the banks, a solitary not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch the stream ‘never hasting, never resting’: the grass that grows beside it is always green, the flowers are fresh; it makes long embracing curves—I could cross from point to point in a minute, but to follow takes five. The ways of the water are ways of healing; I have a companion who makes no mistakes, touches none of my tender spots.
Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide sweep. Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green leaves and wait for their lover the moon; for then they open their silvery leaves and bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath the hot rays of the sun. Then, too, the buds rise out of the water and the moon kisses them into bloom and fragrance. Near by are the little yellow water-lilies, set for beauty against a background of great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall feathery meadowsweet. The river still sweeps on its way, but the pool is undisturbed; it lies out of the current. They say it is very deep—no one knows quite how deep—and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through the clear water, following the thick lily-stalks—a forest where solemn carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze—and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and the evening glow lying at my feet.
I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with flowers of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that reflect, in light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.
I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the old grey church stands out clear and distinct against the fading sky.
* * * * *
One of the happiest memories of my childhood is the little brook in the home field. I know it was not a very clean little brook—it passed through an industrious manufacturing world—but to me then this mattered not at all.
Where it had its source I never found out; it came from a little cave in the side of the hill, and I remember that one of its banks was always higher than the other. I once sought to penetrate the cave, but with sad results in the shape of bed before dinner and no pudding, such small sympathy have one’s elders with the spirit of research. Just beyond the cave the brook was quite a respectable width,—even my big boy cousin fell into mud and disgrace when he tried to jump it—and there was a gravelly beach, at least several inches square, where we launched our boats of hollowed elder-wood. Soon, however, it narrowed, it could even be stepped over; but it was still exciting and delightful, with two perilous rapids over which the boats had to be guided, and many boulders—for the brook was a brave stream, and had fashioned its bed in rocky soil. Further down was our bridge, one flat stone dragged thither by really herculean efforts. It was unnecessary, but a triumph. A little below this outcome of our engineering skill the brook widened again before disappearing under a flagged tunnel into the neighbouring field. Here, in the shallows, we built an aquarium. It was not altogether successful, because whenever it rained at all hard the beasts were washed out; but there was always joy in restocking it. Under one of the banks close by lived a fat frog for whom I felt great respect. We used to sit and gaze at each other in silent intercourse, until he became bored—I think I never did—and flopped into the water with a splash.
But it was the brook itself that was my chief and dearest companion. It chattered and sang to me, and told me of the goblins who lived under the hill, of fairies dancing on the grass on moonlight nights, and scolding the pale lilac milk-maids on the banks; and of a sad little old man dressed in brown, always sad because his dear water-children ran away from him when they heard the voice of the great river telling them of the calling of the sea.
It spoke to me of other more wonderful things, not even now to be put into words, things of the mysteries of a child’s imagination; and these linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until they are fulfilled.
* * * * *
I have another friend—a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring when the fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do not even know its name; it has its source up among the old grey tors, and doubtless in its beginning had a hard fight for existence. When it reaches the plain it is a good-sized stream, although nowhere navigable. I do not think it even turns a mill; it just flows along and waters the flowers. I have seen it with my bodily eyes only once; but it has left in my life a blessing, a picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling water—and whispered secrets not forgotten.
All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They chatter cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their bed. Some of them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past, of the worship of the false god when blood stained the clear waters; tales, too, of feud and warfare, of grave council and martial gathering; and happy stories of fairy and pixy our eyes are too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen with foreign ways and terror of all human beings. Their banks are bright with tormentil, blue with forget-me-not, rich in treasures of starry moss; the water is clear, cool in the hottest summer—they rise under the shadow of the everlasting hills, and their goal is the sea.
* * * * *
There are other times when I must leave the clean waters and the good brown earth, to live, for a while, in London: and there I go on pilgrimage that I may listen to the river’s voice.
I stand sometimes at a wharf where the ships are being unloaded of the riches of every country, of fruits of labour by my unknown brothers in strange lands; and the river speaks of citizenship in the great world of God, wherein all men have place, each man have his own place, and every one should be neighbour to him who may have need.
I pass on to London Bridge, our Bridge of Sighs. How many of these my brethren have sought refuge in the cold grey arms of the river from something worse than death? What drove them to this dreadful resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These things, too, are my concern, the river says.
Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair, glowing colours of grass and sky and trees, and shining streams that bring peace. It is drawn in hard black and white; but the voice of its dark waters must be heard all the same.
* * * * *
I would not leave my rivers in the shadow. After all, this life is only a prelude, a beginning: we pass on to where “the rivers and streams make glad the city of God.” But if we will not listen here how shall we understand hereafter.
Spring
Hark how the merry daffodils,
Fling golden music to the hills!
And how the hills send echoing down,
Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown,
The murmurs of a thousand rills
That mock the song-birds’ liquid trills!
The hedge released from Winter’s frown
Shews jewelled branch and willow crown;
While all the earth with pleasure trills,
And ‘dances with the daffodils.’
Out, out, ye flowers! Up and shout!
Staid Winter’s passed and Spring’s about
To lead your ranks in joyous rout;
To string the hawthorn’s milky pearls,
And gild the grass with celandine;
To dress the catkins’ tasselled curls,
To twist the tendrils of the vine.
She wakes the wind-flower from her sleep,
And lights the woods with April’s moon;
The violets lift their heads to peep,
The daisies brave the sun at noon.
The gentle wind from out the west
Toys with the lilac pretty maids;
Ruffles the meadow’s verdant-vest,
And rings the bluebells in the glades;
The ash-buds change their sombre suit,
The orchards blossom white and red—
Promise of Autumn’s riper fruit,
When Spring’s voluptuousness has fled.
Awake! awake, O throstle sweet!
And haste with all your choir to greet
This Queen who comes with wakening feet.
Persephone with grateful eyes
Salutes the Sun—’tis Paradise:
Then hastens down the dewy meads,
Past where the herd contented feeds,
Past where the furrows hide the grain,
For harvesting of sun and rain;
To where Demeter patient stands
With longing lips and outstretched hands,
Until the dawning of one face
Across the void of time and space
Shall bring again her day of grace.
Rejoice, O Earth! Rejoice and sing!
This is the promise of the Spring,
And this the world’s remembering.
A Lark’s Song
Sweet, sweet!
I rise to greet
The sapphire sky
The air slips by
On either side
As up I ride
On mounting wing,
And sing and sing—
Then reach my bliss,
The sun’s great kiss;
And poise a space
To see his face,
Sweet, sweet,
In radiant grace,
Ah, sweet! ah, sweet!
Sweet, sweet!
Beneath my feet
My nestlings call:
And down I fall
Unerring, true,
Through heaven’s blue;
And haste to fill
Each noisy bill.
My brooding breast
Stills their unrest.
Sweet, sweet,
Their quick hearts beat,
Safe in the nest:
Ah, sweet, sweet, sweet!
Ah, sweet!
Sweet, sweet
The calling sky
That bids me fly
Up—up—on high.
Sweet, sweet
The claiming earth;
It holds my nest
And draws me down
To where Love’s crown
Of priceless worth
Awaits my breast.
Sweet, sweet!
Ah, this is best
And this most meet,
Sweet, sweet! ah, sweet!
‘Luvly Miss’
Nobody thought of consequences. There was a lighted paraffin lamp on the table and nothing else handy. Mrs Brown’s head presented a tempting mark, and of course Mr Brown’s lengthy stay at ‘The Three Fingers’ had something to do with it; but nobody thought of Miss Brown, aged four, who was playing happily on the floor, unruffled by the storm to which she was so well accustomed.
Mrs Brown ducked; there was a smash, a scream, and poor little Miss Brown was in a blaze. The shock sobered the father and silenced the mother. Miss Brown was extinguished with the aid of a table-cover, much water, and many neighbours; but she was horribly burnt all over, except her face.
* * * * *
I made Miss Brown’s acquaintance a few days later. She was lying on a bed made up on two chairs, and was covered with cotton wool. She had scarcely any pain, and could not move at all; and the small face that peered out of what she called her “pitty warm snow” was wan and drawn and had a far-away look in the dark eyes.
Miss Brown possessed one treasure, her ‘luvly miss.’ I suppose I must call it a doll, though in what its claim to the title consisted I dared not ask; Miss Brown would have deeply resented the enquiry. It was a very large potato with a large and a small bulge. Into the large bulge were inserted three pieces of fire-wood, the body and arms of ‘luvly miss’; legs she had none.
How Miss Brown came by this treasure I never heard. She had an impression that it “flied froo the winder”—I fancy Mr Brown had a hand in the manufacture in one of his lucid moments; but it was a treasure indeed and the joy of Miss Brown’s life. She held long conversations with ‘luvly miss’ on all familiar subjects; and apparently obtained much strange and rare information from her. For example, Miss Brown and ‘luvly miss’ in some previous stage of their existence had inhabited a large chimney-pot together, “where it was always so warm and a bootie ‘mell of cookin’.’” Also she had a rooted belief that one day she and ‘luvly miss’ would be “hangels wiv’ black weils and basticks.” This puzzled me for some time, until I discovered it to be an allusion to the good deaconess who attended her, and whom Mrs Brown in gratitude designated by this title.
Alas for little Miss Brown and her ‘luvly miss’! their respective ends were drawing near. I went in one Friday, a week or so after the accident, and found Mrs Brown in tears and despair, and Miss Brown with a look of anguish on her poor little pinched face that was bad to see. ‘Luvly Miss’ was no more.
It was Mr Brown again; or, to trace back the links of occasion, it was the action of ‘The Three Fingers’ on Mr Brown’s frail constitution. He had come in late, seen ‘luvly miss’ on the table, and, with his usual heedlessness of consequence, had chucked her into the dying embers where—alas that I should have to say it!—she slowly baked. Little Miss Brown, when the miserable truth was broken to her, neither wept nor remonstrated; she lay quite still with a look of utter forsaken wretchedness on her tiny white face, and moaned very softly for ‘luvly miss.’
I came face to face with this state of things and I confess it staggered me. I knew Miss Brown too well to hope that any pink-and-white darling from the toy-shop could replace ‘luvly miss,’ or that she could be persuaded to admit even a very image of the dear departed into her affections. Then, too, the doctor said Miss Brown had but a few days at the most, perhaps only hours, to live; and comforted she must be.
All at once I had an inspiration, and never in my life have I welcomed one more. I knelt down by little Miss Brown and told her the story of the Phoenix. I had not reckoned in vain upon her imagination: would I “yerely and twooly bwing” her “werry own luvly miss out of the ashes?” I lied cheerfully and hastened away to the dust-bin, accompanied by Mrs Brown.
In a few minutes we returned with a pail of ashes, the ashes, of course, of ‘luvly miss’ mingled with those of the cruel fire which had consumed her. I danced solemnly round them, murmured mysterious words, parted the ashes, and revealed the form of ‘luvly miss.’ Love’s eyes were not sharp to mark a change, and little Miss Brown’s misplaced faith in me was strong. Never shall I forget the scream of joy which greeted the restored treasure, or the relief with which I saw an expression of peace settle once more on Miss Brown’s face.
* * * * *
I saw them again next day. Little Miss Brown was asleep in her last little bed, still wrapped in the “pitty warm snow,” and ‘luvly miss’ lay beside her.