No convent-garden held this rose,
Concealed like secret treasure;
No royal terrace guarded her
For some sole monarch's pleasure.
She made her shrine, this saint of mine,
In a bright home where children played;
And there she wrought and there she prayed.
In sunshine, when the days were glad,
She had the art of keeping
The clearest rays, to give again
In days of rain and weeping;
Her blessed heart could still impart
Some portion of its secret grace,
And charity shone in her face.
In joy she grew from year to year;
And sorrow made her sweeter;
And every comfort, still more kind;
And every loss, completer.
Her children came to love her name,—
“Christina,”—'twas a lip's caress;
And when they called, they seemed to bless.
No more they call, for she is gone
Too far away to hear them;
And yet they often breathe her name
As if she lingered near them;
They cannot reach her with love's speech,
But when they say “Christina” now
'Tis like a prayer or like a vow:
A vow to keep her life alive
In deeds of pure affection,
So that her love shall find in them
A daily resurrection;
A constant prayer that they may wear
Some touch of that supernal light
With which she blossoms in God's sight.
THE BARGAIN
What shall I give for thee,
Thou Pearl of greatest price?
For all the treasures I possess
Would not suffice.
I give my store of gold;
It is but earthly dross:
But thou wilt make me rich, beyond
All fear of loss.
Mine honours I resign;
They are but small at best:
Thou like a royal star wilt shine
Upon my breast.
My worldly joys I give,
The flowers with which I played;
Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair,
Shall never fade.