A WAIF FROM THE GREAT EXHIBITION, PHILADELPHIA, 1876

“Their store-houses full, flowing out of this into that.

“They have called the people happy that hath these things: but happy is that people whose God is

the Lord.”—Ps. cxliii.

With face storm-lined and bronzed, no longer young,

That seemed as if its soul’s dim life had grown

On lonely farm, in rugged inland town

Lying, a narrow world, bleak hills among,

A stranger gazed amid the wealth and glare

Of all the nations’ gathered industry

Where rose the light, symmetric tracery

Of Munich’s altars worked in colors fair;

Where good St. Joseph with the lilies stood;

And soft-eyed martyr with her branch of palm,

And full, sweet lips smiling with happy calm,

Seemed beaming witness 'mid the multitude

Of glittering toys and earth’s huge, unworked store,

Of nobler purpose man’s life resting o’er.

II.

Here stretched its naked arms the blessèd Rood,

Whose desolation eloquent below

God’s Mother sat in soundless deeps of woe,

Her sad knees holding all her earthly good.

Here stood the stranger with a look intent

Wherein no light of recognition woke,

As if he read in some strange-lettered book.

Then, asking what these unguessed figures meant,

An answer came: “Our Lord, dead 'neath the Cross.”

“Ah! yes, and that is Mary, I suppose—

The Mother.” Ah! what wondering thoughts uprose

To die in silence, winning so some loss,

Perchance, unto two lives. Sweet Mother, pray

That soul accuse not mine on judgment day!

III.

So strange and sad the simple question seemed;

As if on those far hills God’s voice had built,

Upon those souls for whom his blood was spilt

Some shadow rested, amid which scarce gleamed

The mournful splendor by his dark Cross thrown:

As if stern life grew but more hard and bare,

Missing the presence of the Maiden rare

Whose God made her unstained flesh his own;

Who held him on her arms a helpless child,

With love no mother ever knew before;

Holding, when Calvary’s dread hours were o’er,

The Man of Sorrows where her Babe had smiled—

Her arms the cradle of the Almighty One,

Her arms His spotless shroud, life’s labor done.

IV.

Alas! such faith to men denied who grope

Half in a fear begotten not of love,

Half in cold doubt, seeking all things to prove,

To none hold fast, with whom divinest hope

Holds naught more excellent than earth’s to-days;

For whom in vain doth Israel’s lily bloom,

With its white sunshine lighting hours of gloom,

Shining 'mid thorns that seek to crush its grace—

So dimming the broad rays of love divine

With earthly shadow cast on earthly things

That folded keep their gift of heavenly wings,

Lest, soaring, they lose sight of lesser shrine

Lest, heart so kindling with the Spirit’s fire,

Feet lowly tread that eyes be lifted higher.

Slow turning through the glimmering aisles to range,

Amid the hum the loitering footsteps wrought

I lost the questioning face, but not the thought

Of that dim life, to which the night seemed strange

Of Calvary’s God, to whom all life is owed—

That clouded life wherein Faith’s pure sunshine

Casts faintest gleam of its strong light divine

That strengthens soul, makes fair the daily load.

Far down the hall full notes of organ poured,

And broke in song strong voices manifold;

Glad alleluias all exultant rolled,

As if proclaiming on each soaring chord:

“Happy the people of this wealth possessed!”

Nay, Happy they whom God the Lord hath blessed.