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PRAYER

 
  We doubt the word that tells us: Ask,
      And ye shall have your prayer;
  We turn our thoughts as to a task,
      With will constrained and rare.
 
 
  And yet we have; these scanty prayers
      Yield gold without alloy:
  O God, but he that trusts and dares
      Must have a boundless joy!
 

REST

I

 
  When round the earth the Father's hands
      Have gently drawn the dark;
  Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
      And curtained in the lark;
  'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
      To fade with fading light,
  And lie once more, the old weary way,
      Upfolded in the night.
 
 
  If mothers o'er our slumbers bend,
      And unripe kisses reap,
  In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
      Till even in dreams we sleep.
  And if we wake while night is dumb,
      'Tis sweet to turn and say,
  It is an hour ere dawning come,
      And I will sleep till day.
 

II

 
  There is a dearer, warmer bed,
      Where one all day may lie,
  Earth's bosom pillowing the head,
      And let the world go by.
  There come no watching mother's eyes,
      The stars instead look down;
  Upon it breaks, and silent dies,
      The murmur of the town.
 
 
  The great world, shouting, forward fares:
      This chamber, hid from none,
  Hides safe from all, for no one cares
      For him whose work is done.
  Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how
      A certain unknown place,
  Or here or there, is waiting now,
      To rest thee from thy race.
 

III

 
  Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms,
      The still composed breath!
  Not there the folding of the arms,
      The cool, the blessed death!
  That needs no curtained bed to hide
      The world with all its wars,
  No grassy cover to divide
      From sun and moon and stars.
 
 
  It is a rest that deeper grows
      In midst of pain and strife;
  A mighty, conscious, willed repose,
      The death of deepest life.
  To have and hold the precious prize
      No need of jealous bars;
  But windows open to the skies,
      And skill to read the stars!
 

IV

 
  Who dwelleth in that secret place,
      Where tumult enters not,
  Is never cold with terror base,
      Never with anger hot.
  For if an evil host should dare
      His very heart invest,
  God is his deeper heart, and there
      He enters in to rest.
 
 
  When mighty sea-winds madly blow,
      And tear the scattered waves,
  Peaceful as summer woods, below
      Lie darkling ocean caves:
  The wind of words may toss my heart,
      But what is that to me!
  Tis but a surface storm—thou art
      My deep, still, resting sea.
 

O DO NOT LEAVE ME

 
  O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep;
  Till I forget, be near me in that chair.
  The mother's presence leads her down to sleep—
  Leaves her contented there.
 
 
  O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends,
  Till I am dead, and resting in my place.
  Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends,
  And leaves a raptured face.
 
 
  Leave me not, God, until—nay, until when?
  Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind;
  Not till the Life is Light in me, and then
  Leaving is left behind.
 

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH

 
  A quiet heart, submissive, meek,
      Father, do thou bestow,
  Which more than granted, will not seek
      To have, or give, or know.
 
 
  Each little hill then holds its gift
      Forth to my joying eyes;
  Each mighty mountain then doth lift
      My spirit to the skies.
 
 
  Lo, then the running water sounds
      With gladsome, secret things!
  The silent water more abounds,
      And more the hidden springs.
 
 
  Live murmurs then the trees will blend
      With all the feathered song;
  The waving grass low tribute lend
      Earth's music to prolong.
 
 
  The sun will cast great crowns of light
      On waves that anthems roar;
  The dusky billows break at night
      In flashes on the shore.
 
 
  Each harebell, each white lily's cup,
      The hum of hidden bee,
  Yea, every odour floating up,
      The insect revelry—
 
 
  Each hue, each harmony divine
      The holy world about,
  Its soul will send forth into mine,
      My soul to widen out.
 
 
  And thus the great earth I shall hold,
      A perfect gift of thine;
  Richer by these, a thousandfold,
      Than if broad lands were mine.
 

HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL

 
  Father, in the dark I lay,
      Thirsting for the light,
  Helpless, but for hope alway
      In thy father-might.
 
 
  Out of darkness came the morn,
      Out of death came life,
  I, and faith, and hope, new-born,
      Out of moaning strife!
 
 
  So, one morning yet more fair,
      I shall, joyous-brave,
  Sudden breathing loftier air,
      Triumph o'er the grave.
 
 
  Though this feeble body lie
      Underneath the ground,
  Wide awake, not sleeping, I
      Shall in him be found.
 
 
  But a morn yet fairer must
      Quell this inner gloom—
  Resurrection from the dust
      Of a deeper tomb!
 
 
  Father, wake thy little child;
      Give me bread and wine
  Till my spirit undefiled
      Rise and live in thine.
 

WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN

 
  Shepherd, on before thy sheep,
      Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!
  Scarce the track I stumbling keep!
      Through my thin fleece blows the wind!
 
 
  Turn and see me, Son of Man!
      Turn and lift thy Father's child;
  Scarce I walk where once I ran:
      Carry me—the wind is wild!
 
 
  Thou art strong—thy strength wilt share;
      My poor weight thou wilt not feel;
  Weakness made thee strong to bear,
      Suffering made thee strong to heal!
 
 
  I were still a wandering sheep
      But for thee, O Shepherd-man!
  Following now, I faint, I weep,
      Yet I follow as I can!
 
 
  Shepherd, if I fall and lie
      Moaning in the frosty wind,
  Yet, I know, I shall not die—
      Thou wilt miss me—and wilt find!
 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862,

THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE

 
  The skies are pale, the trees are stiff,
      The earth is dull and old;
  The frost is glittering as if
      The very sun were cold.
  And hunger fell is joined with frost,
      To make men thin and wan:
  Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost;
      Be born, O child of man.
 
 
  The children cry, the women shake,
      The strong men stare about;
  They sleep when they should be awake,
      They wake ere night is out.
  For they have lost their heritage—
      No sweat is on their brow:
  Come, babe, and bring them work and wage;
      Be born, and save us now.
 
 
  Across the sea, beyond our sight,
      Roars on the fierce debate;
  The men go down in bloody fight,
      The women weep and hate;
  And in the right be which that may,
      Surely the strife is long!
  Come, son of man, thy righteous way,
      And right will have no wrong.
 
 
  Good men speak lies against thine own—
      Tongue quick, and hearing slow;
  They will not let thee walk alone,
      And think to serve thee so:
  If they the children's freedom saw
      In thee, the children's king,
  They would be still with holy awe,
      Or only speak to sing.
 
 
  Some neither lie nor starve nor fight,
      Nor yet the poor deny;
  But in their hearts all is not right,—
      They often sit and sigh.
  We need thee every day and hour,
      In sunshine and in snow:
  Child-king, we pray with all our power—
      Be born, and save us so.
 
 
  We are but men and women, Lord;
      Thou art a gracious child!
  O fill our hearts, and heap our board,
      Pray thee—the winter's wild!
  The sky is sad, the trees are bare,
      Hunger and hate about:
  Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare
      Will soon be driven out.
 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

 
  Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap,
      The sun shone in his hair;
  And this was how she saw, mayhap,
      The crown already there.
 
 
  For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king;
      Bad Herod dares not come;
  Before thee sleeping, holy thing,
      The wild winds would be dumb."
 
 
  "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet,
      My child, so long desired;
  Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet;
      Thy feet will never be tired."
 
 
  "For thou art the king of men, my son;
      Thy crown I see it plain!
  And men shall worship thee, every one,
      And cry, Glory! Amen!"
 
 
  Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide—
      At Mary looked her lord.
  Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed;
      Babe Jesus said never a word.
 

THE SLEEPLESS JESUS

 
  'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:
      Why gaze thy bright eyes so?
  At night our children, for new joy
      Home to thy father go,
  But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child;
      The moon and stars are gone;
  The wind is up and raving wild,
      But thou art smiling on!
 
 
  My child, thou hast immortal eyes
      That see by their own light;
  They see the children's blood—it lies
      Red-glowing through the night!
  Thou hast an ever-open ear
      For sob or cry or moan:
  Thou seemest not to see or hear,
      Thou only smilest on!
 
 
  When first thou camest to the earth,
      All sounds of strife were still;
  A silence lay about thy birth,
      And thou didst sleep thy fill:
  Thou wakest now—why weep'st thou not?
      Thy earth is woe-begone;
  Both babes and mothers wail their lot,
      But still thou smilest on!
 
 
  I read thy face like holy book;
      No hurt is pictured there;
  Deep in thine eyes I see the look
      Of one who answers prayer.
  Beyond pale grief and wild uproars,
      Thou seest God's will well done;
  Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors,
      Thou hear'st—and smilest on.
 
 
  Men say: "I will arise and go;"
      God says: "I will go meet:"
  Thou seest them gather, weeping low,
      About the Father's feet;
  And each for each begin to bear,
      And standing lonely none:
  Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer!
      Smile, Son of God, smile on.
 

CHRISTMAS, 1873

 
  Christmas-Days are still in store:—
      Will they change—steal faded hither?
  Or come fresh as heretofore,
      Summering all our winter weather?
 
 
  Surely they will keep their bloom
      All the countless pacing ages:
  In the country whence they come
      Children only are the sages!
 
 
  Hither, every hour and year,
      Children come to cure our oldness—
  Oft, alas, to gather sear
      Unbelief, and earthy boldness!
 
 
  Men they grow and women cold,
      Selfish, passionate, and plaining!
  Ever faster they grow old:—
      On the world, ah, eld is gaining!
 
 
  Child, whose childhood ne'er departs!
      Jesus, with the perfect father!
  Drive the age from parents' hearts;
      To thy heart the children gather.
 
 
  Send thy birth into our souls,
      With its grand and tender story.
  Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!—
      News to men! to God old glory!
 

CHRISTMAS, 1884

 
  Though in my heart no Christmas glee,
      Though my song-bird be dumb,
  Jesus, it is enough for me
      That thou art come.
 
 
  What though the loved be scattered far,
      Few at the board appear,
  In thee, O Lord, they gathered are,
      And thou art here.
 
 
  And if our hearts be low with lack,
      They are not therefore numb;
  Not always will thy day come back—
      Thyself will come!
 

AN OLD STORY

I

 
  In the ancient house of ages,
      See, they cannot rest!
  With a hope, which awe assuages,
      Tremble all the blest.
  For the son and heir eternal,
      To be son yet more,
  Leaves his stately chair supernal
      For the earth's low floor;
 
 
  Leaves the room so high and old,
      Leaves the all-world hearth,
  Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold,
      Of the twilight earth—
  To be throned in newer glory
      In a mother's lap,
  Gather up our broken story,
      And right every hap.
 

II

 
  There Earth's foster-baby lies,
      Sleep-dimmed all his graces,
  'Neath four stars of parents' eyes,
      And two heavens of faces!
  See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring,
      Feel the skirts of good
  Fold them in dull-blessed sharing
      Of infinitude.
 
 
  Make a little room betwixt you,
      Pray you, Ass and Cow!
  Sure we shall, if I kneel next you,
      Know each other now!
  To the pit-fallen comes salvation—
      Love is never loath!
  Here we are, thy whole creation,
      Waiting, Lord, thy growth!
 

III

 
  On the slopes of Bethlehem,
      Round their resting sheep,
  Shepherds sat, and went and came,
      Guarding holy sleep;
  But the silent, high dome-spaces,
      Airy galleries,
  Thronged they were with watching faces,
      Thronged with open eyes.
 
 
  Far across the desert floor,
      Come, slow-drawing nigher,
  Sages deep in starry lore,
      Priests of burning Fire.
  In the sky they read his story,
      And, through starlight cool,
  They come riding to the Glory,
      To the Wonderful.
 

IV

 
  Babe and mother, coming Mage,
      Shepherd, ass, and cow!
  Angels watching the new age,
      Time's intensest Now!
  Heaven down-brooding, Earth upstraining,
      Far ends closing in!
  Sure the eternal tide is gaining
      On the strand of sin!
 
 
  See! but see! Heaven's chapel-master
      Signs with lifted hand;
  Winds divine blow fast and faster,
      Swelling bosoms grand.
  Hark the torrent-joy let slip!
      Hark the great throats ring!
  Glory! Peace! Good-fellowship!
      And a Child for king!