The Poetical Works | Page 5

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 with the boys of Nazareth
He never joined in mirth,
Yet
young and old felt strangely drawn
Towards His modest worth;

E'en though that quiet, wondrous Child,
Had never laughed nor even
smiled.*
For even then prophetic rose
Before His spirit's gaze
The cruel
Cross, the griefs reserved
For manhood's coming days,
And, worse
than all, the countless host
That, spite His pangs, might yet be lost.
Silent and calm, He held His way
From morn till evening still;
His
thoughts intent on working out
His Mighty Father's will;
While

Heaven bent in ecstasy,
O'er the Boy-God of Galilee.
[* An old tradition avers that our Saviour was never seen to laugh
during His mortal life.]
OUR SAVIOUR AND THE SAMARITAN WOMAN AT THE
WELL.
Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob's far-famed well,
Whose
dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell,
Reflecting back
the bright hot heavens within its waveless
breast,
Jesus, foot-sore and weary, had sat Him down to rest.
Alone was He--His followers had gone to Sichar near,
Whose roofs
and spires rose sharply against the heavens clear, For food which
Nature craveth, whate'er each hope or care,
And which, though Lord
of Nature, He disdained not to share.
While thus He calmly waited, came a woman to the well,
With water
vase poised gracefully, and step that lightly fell, One of Samaria's
daughters, most fair, alas! but frail,
Her dark locks bound with
flowers instead of modest, shelt'ring
veil.
No thought of scornful anger within His bosom burned,
Nor, with
abhorrent gesture, His face from her He turned;
But as His gaze of
purity dwelt on her, searching, meek,
Her bright eyes fell, and
blushes hot burned on her brow and
cheek.
He told her with a gentleness, by God-like pity nursed,
Of wond'rous
living fountains at which to slake her thirst; That those whose lips,
thrice blessed, should a draught from them

obtain,
Despite earth's toils and troubles, would ne'er know thirst
again.
He spoke, too, of the frailties which her womanhood had marred, That
priceless crown which, she, alas! had sadly failed to guard, No word of
bold denial did that woman dare to plan--
She felt that He who spoke
with her was more than mortal man.
And when the twelve disciples returned, their errand done,
They
wondered at His converse with that lost and erring one, But still they
asked no question, while she, with thoughtful
mien,
Returned to tell her friends at home of all that she had seen.
Not only for that daughter of Samaria's hot clime--
Child of an
ancient people, of a by-gone faith and time--
Was meant the
exhortation that from His lips then fell,
But for His Christian children,
for us, to-day, as well.
For us, still pure and sparkling, those living waters flow
Of which He
told Samaria's child long centuries ago:
Forgetting thoughts of earthly
pride, and hopes of worldly gain, Seek we but once of them to
drink--we'll never thirst again.
THE TEN LEPERS.
'Neath the olives of Samaria, in far-famed Galilee,
Where dark green
vines are mirrored in a placid silver sea, 'Mid scenes of tranquil beauty,
glowing sun-sets, rosy dawn, The Master and disciples to the city
journeyed on.
And, as they neared a valley where a sheltered hamlet lay,
A strange,
portentous wailing made them pause upon their way-- Voices fraught
with anguish, telling of aching heart and brow, Which kept moaning:
"Jesus, Master, have mercy on us now!"

Softly raised the gentle Saviour His eyes like midnight star, And His
mournful gaze soon rested on ten lepers, who, afar, Stood motionless
and suppliant, in sackcloth rudely clothed, Poor Pariahs! by their
nearest, their dearest, shunned and
loathed.
Not unto Him prayed vainly those sore afflicted ten,
No! He yearned
too fondly over the erring sons of men,
Even sharing in their sorrows,
though He joined not in their
feasts,--
So He kindly told the Lepers: "Show yourselves unto the
priests."
When, miracle of mercy! as they turned them to obey,
And towards
the Holy Temple quickly took their hopeful way, Lo! the hideous scales
fell off them, health's fountains were
unsealed,
Their skin grew soft as infant's--their leprosy was healed.
O man! so oft an ingrate, to thy thankless nature true,
Thyself see in
those Lepers, who did as thou dost do;
Nine went their way rejoicing,
healed in body--glad in soul-- Nor once thought of returning thanks to
Him who made them whole.
One only, a Samaritan, a stranger to God's word,
Felt his joyous,
panting bosom, with gratitude deep stirred, And without delay he
hastened, in the dust, at Jesus' feet, To cast himself in worship, in
thanksgiving, warm