Part 23 (1/2)
SANTA CHRISTINA
Saints are G.o.d's flowers, fragrant souls That His own hand hath planted, Not in some far-off heavenly place, Or solitude enchanted, But here and there and everywhere,-- In lonely field, or crowded town, G.o.d sees a flower when He looks down.
Some wear the lily's stainless white, And some the rose of pa.s.sion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fas.h.i.+on, With silent bloom and soft perfume, Is praising Him who from above Beholds each lifted face of love.
One such I knew,--and had the grace To thank my G.o.d for knowing: The beauty of her quiet life Was like a rose in blowing, So fair and sweet, so all-complete And all unconscious, as a flower, That light and fragrance were her dower.
No convent-garden held this rose, Concealed like secret treasure; No royal terrace guarded her For some sole monarch's pleasure.
She made her shrine, this saint of mine, In a bright home where children played; And there she wrought and there she prayed.
In suns.h.i.+ne, when the days were glad, She had the art of keeping The clearest rays, to give again In days of rain and weeping; Her blessed heart could still impart Some portion of its secret grace, And charity shone in her face.
In joy she grew from year to year; And sorrow made her sweeter; And every comfort, still more kind; And every loss, completer.
Her children came to love her name,-- ”Christina,”--'twas a lip's caress; And when they called, they seemed to bless.
No more they call, for she is gone Too far away to hear them; And yet they often breathe her name As if she lingered near them; They cannot reach her with love's speech, But when they say ”Christina” now 'Tis like a prayer or like a vow:
A vow to keep her life alive In deeds of pure affection, So that her love shall find in them A daily resurrection; A constant prayer that they may wear Some touch of that supernal light With which she blossoms in G.o.d's sight.
THE BARGAIN
What shall I give for thee, Thou Pearl of greatest price?
For all the treasures I possess Would not suffice.
I give my store of gold; It is but earthly dross: But thou wilt make me rich, beyond All fear of loss.
Mine honours I resign; They are but small at best: Thou like a royal star wilt s.h.i.+ne Upon my breast.
My worldly joys I give, The flowers with which I played; Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair, Shall never fade.
Dear Lord, is that enough?
_Nay, not a thousandth part._ Well, then, I have but one thing more: Take Thou my heart.
TO THE CHILD JESUS
I
THE NATIVITY
Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, A happy human child, among the homes of men, The age of doubt would pa.s.s,--the vision of Thy face Would silently restore the childhood of the race.