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,
A glorious type, hath left.
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,
Touched by his Saviour's eye."
"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
Flash brighter in their joy
Than theirs, who scan the meek desires And lowly lone employ
Of maiden in her quiet bower,
When haply glance or mien
Reminds them of the lily flower
With Blessed Mary seen.-
But as when babes by look or tone
Brother or friend recall,
In all the Parents' right we own,
Their memory blend with all,
So in earth's saintly multitude
Discern we Saints above :-
In these, the Fountain Orb of Good,
Pure Light and endless Love.
THE western sky is glowing yet,
The burnished Cross upon the spire
Gives token where the Sun hath set,
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,
Lest haply ruder ears be nigh;
But to the babe her sense is plain,
In that half word of lullaby.
That sound still varied, still the same,
To him is as the Saving Name
Pronounced in every tone, and strong
To guard his sleep from every wrong.
Angels may read such words of
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!
We have no lack if Thou art there,
From Thee our infant joys began,
By Thee our wearier age we bear.
From Satan's breath, from Herod's sword,
The cradle where Thou watchest, Lord,
Is safe: the Avenger's rushing cry
Is like a sister's lullaby.
|