Rampolli | Page 9

art my life! my world! my
gold!
Should every earthly thing forsake me,
I know who will me
scatheless hold!
I see Thee my lost loves restoring!
True evermore to me thou art!

Low at thy feet heaven sinks adoring,
And yet thou dwellest in my
heart!
XII.
Earth's Consolation, why so slow?
Thy inn is ready long ago;
Each
lifts to thee his hungering eyes,
And open to thy blessing lies.
O Father, pour him forth with might;
Out of thine arms, oh yield him
quite!
Shyness alone, sweet shame, I know,
Kept him from coming
long ago!
Haste him from thine into our arm
To take him with thy breath yet
warm;
Thick clouds around the baby wrap,
And let him down into
our lap.
In the cool streams send him to us;
In flames let him glow tremulous;

In air and oil, in sound and dew,
Let him pierce all Earth's structure
through.
So shall the holy fight be fought,
So come the rage of hell to nought;

And, ever blooming, dawn again
The ancient Paradise 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