The Poetical Works | Page 4

stretched thereon?Is Abraham's son, his only one,?Who at morning's blushing dawn?Had started with smiles that care defied?To travel on at his father's side.
With grief-struck brow the Patriarch now?Bares the sharp and glittering knife;?On that mournful pyre, oh hapless sire!?Must he take his darling's life??Will fails not, though his eyes are dim,?God gave his boy--he belongs to him.
With anguish riven, he casts towards Heaven?One look, imploring, wild,?That doth mutely pray for strength to slay?His own, his only child;?When forth on the air swells a glad command,?And an angel stays his trembling hand.
The offering done, the sire and son?Come down Moriah's steep,?Joy gleaming now on Abraham's brow,?In his heart thanksgiving deep;?While with love from His lofty and glorious Throne?Heaven's King hath smiled on sire and son.
THE STABLE OF BETHLEHEM.
'Twas not a palace proud and fair?He chose for His first home;?No dazz'ling pile of grandeur rare,?With pillar'd hall and dome;?Oh no! a stable, rude and poor,?Received Him at His birth;?And thus was born, unknown, obscure,?The Lord of Heaven and Earth.
No band of anxious menials there,?To tend the new-born child,?Joseph alone and Mary fair?Upon the infant smiled;?No broidered linens fine had they?Those little limbs to fold,?No baby garments rich and gay,?No tissues wrought with gold.
Come to your Saviour's lowly bed,?Ye vain and proud of heart!?And learn with bowed and humbled head?The lesson 'twill impart;?'Twill teach you not to prize too high?The riches vain of earth--?But to lay up in God's bright sky?Treasures of truer worth.
And you, poor stricken sons of grief,?Sad outcasts of this life,?Come, too, and seek a sure relief?For your heart's bitter strife;?Enter that village stable door,?And view that lowly cot--?Will it not teach you to endure,?And even bless your lot?
VIRGIN OF BETHLEHEM.
Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One!?Star of the pilgrim on life's stormy sea!?Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly one,?List to the prayers that we offer to thee!
Not for the joys that this false earth bestoweth,?Empty and fleeting as April sunshine,?But for the grace that from holiness floweth,?Grace, purest Mother, that always was thine.
Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,?Thine was the will of thy Father above,?Thus thy life's fervor so strangely confounded?Cold hearts that mocked at religion's pure love.
Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,?Bowed thee, unmurm'ring, beneath sorrow's rod;?Spirit of purity ever indwelling?Made thee the Temple and Mother of God.
These are the gifts that thy children implore,?With hearts warmly beating, and low bended knee;?Oh! ask of thy Son, whom we humbly adore,?To grant us the prayers that we whisper to thee.
THE PURIFICATION.
Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high-- Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky--?Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold?Of mystic veil--from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.
Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and
bright:?Agate and porphyry--precious gems--cedar and ivory white,?Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare, With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.
But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high, A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye;--?A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face-- With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.
Yet, no! those soft, slight arms enfold a helpless new-born
child,?Late entered on this world of woe--still pure and undefiled; While two white doves she humbly lays before the altar there Tell that, despite her girlish years, she knows a matron's care.
No fairer sight could heart have asked than that which met the
view,?E'en had He been the child of sin--and she a sinner, too;?But how must heavenly hosts have looked in breathless rapture on, Knowing Him, as the Temple's Lord--the Word--th'Eternal Son!
While she was that Maid Mother rare--fairest of Adam's race, Whom Heaven's Archangel, bending low, had hailed as full of
grace,--?The Mother of that infant God close clasped unto her breast-- the Mary humble, meek and pure, above all women blessed.
OUR SAVIOUR'S BOYHOOD.
With what a flood of wondrous thoughts?Each Christian breast must swell?When, wandering back through ages past,?With simple faith they dwell?On quiet Nazareth's sacred sod,?Where the Child Saviour's footsteps trod.
Awe-struck we picture to ourselves?That brow serene and fair,?That gentle face, the long rich curls?Of wavy golden hair,?And those deep wondrous, star-like eyes,?Holy and calm as midnight skies.
We see Him in the work-shop shed?With Joseph, wise and good,?Obedient to His guardian's word,?Docile and meek of mood;?The Mighty Lord of Heaven and Earth?Toiling like one of lowly birth.
Or else, with His young Mother fair--?That sinless, spotless one,?Who watched with fond and reverent care,?Her high and glorious Son,?Knowing a matron's joy and pride,?And yet a Virgin pure beside.
All marvelled at the strange, shy grace?Of Mary's gentle Son;?Young mothers envied her the Boy?Who love from all hearts won;?And, gazing on that face so mild,?Prayed low to Heaven for such a child.
Though