A LITTLE SERMON.
FROM “THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS.”
The Poor One of Assisi trod one day
Bevagna’s road, and, praying by the way—
His heart seraphic, like the choirs above,
Filled with the sweetness born of heavenly love—
Lifting his eyes, that loved the earth’s fair face,
He saw, thick gathered in a bosky place,
A host of birds that flitted to and fro,
Filling the boughs with twittering murmur low.
“Wait here, my brothers,” fell in gentle speech;
“Unto this multitude needs must I preach:
“Here by the wayside, good Masseo, bide
Till I these little birds have satisfied.”
Into the field he passed, the flowers among,
Where, on the bending stems, the songsters swung.
Gathered the wingèd things about his feet,
Dropped from the boughs amid the grasses sweet:
Reverent dropt down to listen to God’s word,
Silenced their song that his Poor One be heard.
Touching with his gray robe their eager wings,
St. Francis softly stilled their flutterings.
Sedate they sat with crested heads alert,
The near ones nestling in their brother’s skirt.
“My little birds, ye owe deep gratitude
To God, who has your forms with life imbued,
“And ever in all places should ye praise
Your Maker, who in love keeps you always,
“Since by His hand to you is freedom given
To fly where’er ye will, on earth, in heaven:
“Since from his strong and loving hand ye hold
Your double garments guarding you from cold:
“Since, that no evil blight fall on your race,
He gave in Noe’s ark your sires a place.
“And unto him deep gratitude ye owe
For this pure air whence life itself doth flow.
“And then ye sow not, neither do ye reap,
Yet God for you doth plenteous harvest keep;
“The streams He gives you, and the limpid spring
Where ye may drink of waters freshening;
“He gives the hills and valleys for your rest,
The great-armed trees where each may make his nest.
“And, since ye cannot spin nor sew, his care
Weaves the soft robes ye and your fledglings wear.
“How much he loves that doth so richly give!
Praise him, my little birds, all days ye live!
“So keep ye well from sin of thanklessness,
And God keep you, whom let all creatures bless!”
Bowed all the little birds their heads to earth,
Oped wide their bills, and sang with holy mirth
Their Deo gratias when St. Francis ceased,
Yet rose not till his hand their wings released
With Christian cross signed in the happy air,
Giving the songsters leave to scatter there.
Softly, so blessed, the grateful birds up-soared
And marvellous music in their flight outpoured:
Looked not at earth, nor him they left behind,
Parting in ways the holy cross had signed.
Singing they cleft the quarters of the sky—
Type of St. Francis’ mission wide and high:
Type of his little ones who nothing own,
Whose humble trust is in their Lord alone—
So nourished as their brother birds are fed,
Whose great Creator doth their table spread.
Listening the lessening chant, St. Francis smiled,
Praising his Lord for joy so undefiled.
—From the French of F. A. Ozanam.