Rampolli | Page 9

of men.
Earth stirs once more, grows green and live;?Full of the Spirit, all things strive?To clasp with love the Saviour-guest,?And offer him the mother-breast.
Winter gives way; a year new-born?Stands at the manger's alter-horn;?'Tis the first year of that new Earth?Claimed by the child in right of birth.
Our eyes they see the Saviour well,?Yet in them doth the Saviour dwell;?With flowers his head is wreathed about;?From every flower himself smiles out.
He is the star; he is the sun;?Life's well that evermore will run;?From herb, stone, sea, and light's expanse?Glimmers his childish countenance.
His childlike labour things to mend,?His ardent love will never end;?He nestles, with unconscious art,?Divinely fast to every heart.
To us a God, to himself a child,?He loves us all, self un-defiled;?Becomes our drink, becomes our food--?His dearest thanks, a heart that's good.
The misery grows yet more and more;?A gloomy grief afflicts us sore:?Keep him no longer, Father, thus;?He will come home again with us!
XIII.
When in hours of fear and failing,?All but quite our heart despairs;?When, with sickness driven to wailing.?Anguish at our bosom tears;?Then our loved ones we remember;?All their grief and trouble rue;?Clouds close in on our December?And no beam of hope shines through!
Oh but then God bends him o'er us!?Then his love comes very near!?Long we heavenward then--before us?Lo, his angel standing clear!?Life's cup fresh to us he reaches;?Whispers comfort, courage new;?Nor in vain our prayer beseeches?Rest for our beloved ones too.
XIV.
Who once hath seen thee, Mother fair,?Destruction him shall never snare;?His fear is, from thee to be parted;?He loves thee evermore, true-hearted;?Thy grace remembered is the source?Whereout springs hence his spirit's highest force.
My heart is very true to thee;?My ever failing thou dost see:?Let me, sweet mother, yet essay thee--?Give me one happy sign, I pray thee.?My whole existence rests in thee:?One moment, only one, be thou with me.
I used to see thee in my dreams,?So fair, so full of tenderest beams!?The little God in thine arms lying?Took pity on his playmate crying:?But thou with high look me didst awe,?And into clouds of glory didst withdraw.
What have I done to thee, poor wretch??To thee my longing arms I stretch!?Are not thy holy chapels ever?My resting-spots in life's endeavour??O Queen, of saints and angels blest,?This heart and life take up into thy rest!
Thou know'st that I, beloved Queen,?All thine and only thine have been!?Have I not now, years of long measure,?In silence learned thy grace to treasure??While to myself yet scarce confest,?Even then I drew milk from thy holy breast.
Oh, countless times thou stood'st by me!?I, merry child, looked up to thee!?His hands thy little infant gave me?In sign that one day he would save me;?Thou smiledst, full of tenderness,?And then didst kiss me: oh the heavenly bliss!
Afar stands now that gladness brief;?Long have I companied with grief;?Restless I stray outside the garden!?Have I then sinned beyond thy pardon??Childlike thy garment's hem I pull:?Oh wake me from this dream so weariful!
If only children see thy face,?And, confident, may trust thy grace,?From age's bonds, oh, me deliver,?And make me thine own child for ever!?The love and truth of childhood's prime?Dwell in me yet from that same golden time.
XV.
In countless pictures I behold thee,?O Mary, lovelily expressed,?But of them all none can unfold thee?As I have seen thee in my breast!?I only know the world's loud splendour?Since then is like a dream o'erblown;?And that a heaven, for words too tender,?My quieted spirit fills alone.
A PARABLE.
Long ago, there lived far to the west a very young man, good, but extremely odd. He tormented himself continually about this nothing and that nothing, always walked in silence and straight before him, sat down alone when the others were at their sports and merry-makings, and brooded over strange things. Caves and woods were his dearest haunts; and there he talked on and on with beasts and birds, with trees and rocks--of course not one rational word, but mere idiotic stuff, to make one laugh to death. He continued, however, always moody and serious, in spite of the utmost pains that the squirrel, the monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch could take to divert him, and set him in the right way. The goose told stories, the brook jingled a ballad between, a great thick stone cut ridiculous capers, the rose stole lovingly about him from behind and crept through his locks, while the ivy stroked his troubled brow. But his melancholy and gravity were stubborn. His parents were much troubled, and did not know what to do. He was in good health, and ate well enough; they had never caused him any offence; and, until a few years ago, he had been the liveliest and merriest of them all, foremost in all their games, and a favourite with all the maidens. He was very handsome, looked like a picture, and danced like an angel.