And mark, too keen for earthly day, Christ in the heart, the Living Ray, Oh, well the denizens of Heaven By gaze of meek inquiry, turn'd By tears that to obey have learn'd, By clasped hands on high. Well may we guess, our Guardians true Stoop low and tarry long, Each accent noting, each faint hue, That shows us weak or strong. And even as loving nurses here Joy in the babe to find The likeness true of kinsman dear Or brother good and kind, So in each budding inward grace The Seraphs' searching ken The memory haply may retrace Of ancient, holy men. For of her Saints the Sacred Home Is never quite bereft ; Each a bright shadow in the gloom, And by those features, stern or sweet, Resigned or dauntless, all Heaven's keen-eyed Watchers use to mete, Which mortals holy call. "And hark," saith one, "the soul I guide I heard it gently sigh In such a tone as Peter sighed, "And see," another cries, "how soft Smiles on that little child Yon aged man! even so full oft The loved Disciple smiled." And oh, be sure no guardian fires Than theirs, who scan the meek desires And lowly lone employ Of maiden in her quiet bower, But as when babes by look or tone In all the Parents' right we own, So in earth's saintly multitude In these, the Fountain Orb of Good, 3. THE LULLABY. THE western sky is glowing yet, Touch'd faintly with its last dim fire. Pause on thy way from evening prayer, And listen through the twilight air Floats from yon open cottage door A soft strain warbled o'er and o'er. A maiden rocks a babe to sleep, And times the cradle to her song;A simple strain, not high nor deep, But awful thoughts thereto belong : For oft in holy Church's shade She to that strain hath lent her aid."In thee I put my steadfast trust, Defend me, Lord, for thou art just.”* * Psalm lxxi. 1. New Version. Without a Psalm she breathes her strain, Angels may read such words of power, And infants feel them: we the while But dimly guess, till in His hour We see the Lord's unclouded smile. Then spells that guarded us of old Their hidden virtue shall unfold: Charm'd writings are they now; no eye May read them till the fire be nigh. O awful touch of God made Man! By Thee our wearier age we bear. |