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قراءة كتاب A Christmas Faggot
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
sage,
Pure as the Cherubim.
But sweeter than the sweetest word
Recorded of the wise and good,
His silence is a music heard
On high, and understood.
Recorded of the wise and good,
His silence is a music heard
On high, and understood.
Blessed are all who take their part
Amid the carol-singing throng;
Thrice blest the meditative heart
Whose silence is a song.
Amid the carol-singing throng;
Thrice blest the meditative heart
Whose silence is a song.
Ballachulish: 1884.
A CRADLE SONG.
Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,
May the music of your song
Silence all the dark forebodings
That have plagued the world too long;
He who made your voices tuneful
Comes to right the wrong.
May the music of your song
Silence all the dark forebodings
That have plagued the world too long;
He who made your voices tuneful
Comes to right the wrong.
Warble on, ye feathered songsters,
Lift your praises loud and high,
Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,
In the grove and in the sky
Make your music, shame our dumbness,
Till we make reply.
Lift your praises loud and high,
Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,
In the grove and in the sky
Make your music, shame our dumbness,
Till we make reply.
Children's laughter is a music
Flowing from a hidden spring,
Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,
Well is worth discovering;
Slowly dies the heart that knows not
How to laugh and sing.
Flowing from a hidden spring,
Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,
Well is worth discovering;
Slowly dies the heart that knows not
How to laugh and sing.
Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer
Is the Heart of God Most High;
All sweet voices are the echoes
That in varied tones reply
To that Voice which through the ages
Sings earth's lullaby.
Is the Heart of God Most High;
All sweet voices are the echoes
That in varied tones reply
To that Voice which through the ages
Sings earth's lullaby.
Oftentimes a sleepless infant
For a season frets and cries:
All at once an unseen finger
Curtains up the little eyes.
So the cradled child He nurses
God will tranquillise.
For a season frets and cries:
All at once an unseen finger
Curtains up the little eyes.
So the cradled child He nurses
God will tranquillise.
His the all-enfolding Presence;
Oh, what tutelage it brings
To the little lives that ripen
'Neath the shelter of its wings;
God's delays are no denials,
As He waits He sings!
Oh, what tutelage it brings
To the little lives that ripen
'Neath the shelter of its wings;
God's delays are no denials,
As He waits He sings!
They alone are seers and singers
Who invalidate despair
By the lofty hopes they cherish,
By the gallant deeds they dare,
By the ceaseless aspirations
Of a life of prayer.
Who invalidate despair
By the lofty hopes they cherish,
By the gallant deeds they dare,
By the ceaseless aspirations
Of a life of prayer.
Loch Laggan: 1884.
A CRADLED CHILD.
(To E. A. G.)
Behold! the world's inheritance,
The treasure-trove of happy homes;
Whereby the poorest hut becomes
A fairy-palace of romance.
The treasure-trove of happy homes;
Whereby the poorest hut becomes
A fairy-palace of romance.
A cradle is the mother's shrine:
Two lamps o'erhang it—her sweet eyes,
Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise,
On sleeping infancy divine.
Two lamps o'erhang it—her sweet eyes,
Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise,
On sleeping infancy divine.
The presence of a 'holy thing,'
Madonna-wise, her heart discerns,
And like a fragrant censer burns,
O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Madonna-wise, her heart discerns,
And like a fragrant censer burns,
O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Her brooding motherhood is strong;
A trembling joy her bosom stirs,
Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers,
'Magnificat' is all her song.
A trembling joy her bosom stirs,
Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers,
'Magnificat' is all her song.
'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails'
The waking moment she awaits,
The opening of two pearly gates,
The lifting of two silken veils.
The waking moment she awaits,
The opening of two pearly gates,
The lifting of two silken veils.
Ah! then, what words can tell the bliss,
The rapture of the fond embrace,
When mother's lips on baby's face,
Feast and are feasted with a kiss?
And who can tell of hands and feet
The dimpled wonders, hidden charms,
The dainty curves of legs and arms,
So sweet and soft, so soft and sweet?
This is the world's possession still,
The treasure-trove of wedded hearts,
Whereby a Father's love imparts
His joy, their gladness to fulfil.
Tyntesfield: 1884.
AN EMPTY CRADLE.
All empty stands a little cradle-bed,
A mother's falling tears the only sound;
But not of earth her thoughts, nor underground;
Up-gazing she discerns the Fountain-head
Of life; the living Voice she hears that said
'Fear not' to weeping women who had found
An empty tomb, and angels watching round,
Who asked 'Why seek the living with the dead?'
So weeps our Mother Church—her tears outshine
Sun-smitten dewdrops on a summer's morn;
God's rainbow girdles her, Hope's lovely sign,
A mother's falling tears the only sound;
But not of earth her thoughts, nor underground;
Up-gazing she discerns the Fountain-head
Of life; the living Voice she hears that said
'Fear not' to weeping women who had found
An empty tomb, and angels watching round,
Who asked 'Why seek the living with the dead?'
So weeps our Mother Church—her tears outshine
Sun-smitten dewdrops on a summer's morn;
God's rainbow girdles her, Hope's lovely sign,