THE GREY BRETHREN AND OTHER FRAGMENTS IN PROSE AND VERSE
Contents
The Grey Brethren
A Song of Low Degree
A German Christmas Eve
A Christmas Idyll
The Manifestation
All Souls' Day in a German Town
By Rivers and Streams
Spring
A Lark's Song
'Luvly Miss'
Four Stories Told To Children:
The Dreadful Griffin
The Discontented Daffodils
The Fairy Fluffikins
The Story of the Tinkle-Tinkle
The Grey Brethren
Some of the happiest remembrances of my childhood are of days spent
in a little Quaker colony on a high hill.
The walk was in itself a preparation, for the hill was long and
steep and at the mercy of the north-east wind; but at the top,
sheltered by a copse and a few tall trees, stood a small house,
reached by a flagged pathway skirting one side of a bright trim
garden.
I, with my seven summers of lonely, delicate childhood, felt, when
I gently closed the gate behind me, that I shut myself into Peace.
The house was always somewhat dark, and there were no domestic
sounds. The two old ladies, sisters, both born in the last
century, sat in the cool, dim parlour, netting or sewing. Rebecca
was small, with a nut-cracker nose and chin; Mary, tall and
dignified, needed no velvet under the net cap. I can feel now the
touch of the cool dove-coloured silk against my cheek, as I sat on
the floor, watching the nimble fingers with the shuttle, and
listened as Mary read aloud a letter received that morning,
describing a meeting of the faithful and the 'moving of the Spirit'
among them. I had a mental picture of the 'Holy Heavenly Dove,'
with its wings of silvery grey, hovering over my dear old ladies;
and I doubt not my vision was a true one.
Once as I watched Benjamin, the old gardener - a most 'stiff-backed
Friend' despite his stoop and his seventy years - putting scarlet
geraniums and yellow fever-few in the centre bed, I asked, awe-
struck, whether such glowing colours were approved; and Rebecca
smiled and said - "Child, dost thee not think the Lord may have His
glories?" and I looked from the living robe of scarlet and gold to
the dove-coloured gown, and said: "Would it be pride in thee to
wear His glories?" and Mary answered for her - "The change is not
yet; better beseems us the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.
The 'change from glory to glory' has come to them both long since,
but it seems to me as if their robes must still be Quaker-grey.
Upstairs was the invalid daughter and niece. For years she had
been compelled to lie on her face; and in that position she had
done wonderful drawings of the High Priest, the Ark of the
Covenant, and other Levitical figures. She had a cageful of tame
canary-birds which answered to their names and fed from her plate
at meal-times. Of these I remember only Roger, a gorgeous fellow
with a beautiful voice and strong will of his own, who would
occasionally defy his mistress from the secure fastness of a high
picture-frame, but always surrendered at last, and came to listen
to his lecture with drooping wings.
A city of Peace, this little house, for the same severely-gentle
decorum reigned in the kitchen as elsewhere: and now, where is
such a haunt to be found?
In the earlier part of this century the Friends bore a most
important witness. They were a standing rebuke to rough manners,
rude speech, and to the too often mere outward show of religion.
No one could fail to be impressed by the atmosphere of peace
suggested by their bearing and presence; and the gentle, sheltered,
contemplative lives lived by most of them undoubtedly made them
unusually responsive to spiritual influence. Now, the young birds
have left the parent nest and the sober plumage and soft speech;
they are as other men; and in a few short years the word Quaker
will sound as strange in our ears as the older appellation Shaker
does now.
This year I read for the first time the Journal of George Fox. It
is hard to link the rude, turbulent son of Amos with the denizens
in my city of Peace; but he had his work to do and did it, letting
breezy truths into the stuffy 'steeple-houses' of the 'lumps of
clay.'
"Come out from among them and be ye separate; touch not the
accursed thing!" he thundered; and out they came, obedient to his
stentorian mandate; but alack, how many treasures in earthen
vessels did they overlook in their terror of the curse! The good
people made such haste to flee the city, that they imagined
themselves as having already, in the spirit, reached the land that
is very far off; and so they cast from them the outward and visible
signs which are vehicles, in this material world, of inward graces.
Measureless are the uncovenanted blessings of God; and to these the
Friends have ever borne a witness of power; but now the Calvinist
intruder no longer divides the sheep from the goats in our
churches; now the doctrine of universal brotherhood and the respect
due to all men are taught much more effectively than when George
Fox refused to doff his hat to the Justice; the quaint old speech
has lost its significance, the dress would imply all the vainglory
that the wearer desires to avoid; the young Quakers of this
generation are no longer 'disciplined' in matters of the common
social life; yet still they remain separate.
We of the outward and visible covenant need them, with their
inherited mysticism, ordered contemplation, and spiritual vision;
we need them for ourselves. The mother they have left yearns for
them, and with all her faults - faults the greater for their
absence - and with the blinded eyes of their recognition, she is
their mother still. "What advantage then hath the Jew?" asked St
Paul, and answered in the same breath - "Much every way, chiefly
because that unto them were committed the oracles of God." What
advantage then has the Churchman? is the oft repeated question
today; and the answer is still the answer of St Paul.
The Incarnation is the sum of all the Sacraments, the crown of the
material revelation of God to man, the greatest of outward and
visible signs, "that which we have heard, which we have seen with
our eyes, which we have looked upon and our hands have handled of
the word of life." A strange beginning truly, to usher in a purely
spiritual dispensation; but beautifully fulfilled in the taking up
of the earthly into the heavenly - Bread and Wine, the natural
fruits of the earth, sanctified by man's toil, a sufficiency for
his needs; and instinct with Divine life through the operation of
the Holy Ghost.
"In the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat bread."
"Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood ye
have no life in you"
"And the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations."
From Genesis to the Revelation of the Divine reaches the rainbow of
the Sacramental system - outward and visible signs of inward and
spiritual grace:-
The sacrament of purging, purifying labour, to balance and control
the knowledge of good and evil:-
The sacrament of life, divine life, with the outward body of
humiliation, bread and wine, fruit of the accursed ground, but
useless without man's labour; and St Paul, caught up into the third
heaven, and St John, with his wide-eyed vision of the Lamb, must
eat this bread and drink this cup if they would live:-
The sacrament of healing, the restoring of the Image of God in
fallen man.
The Church is one society, nay, the world is one society, for man
without his fellow-men is not; and into the society, both of the
Church and the world, are inextricably woven the most social
sacraments.
Herein is great purpose, we say, bending the knee; and with deep
consciousness of sins and shortcomings we stretch out longing
welcoming hands to our grey brethren with their inheritance of
faithfulness and steadfastness under persecution, and their many
gifts and graces; and we cry, in the words of the Song of Songs
which is Solomon's: "O my dove, that art in the clefts of the
rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy
countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy
countenance is comely." "Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come
away. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone."
A Song of Low Degree
Lord, I am small, and yet so great,
The whole world stands to my estate,
And in Thine Image I create.
The sea is mine; and the broad sky
Is mine in its immensity:
The river and the river's gold;
The earth's hid treasures manifold;
The love of creatures small and great,
Save where I reap a precious hate;
The noon-tide sun with hot caress,
The night with quiet loneliness;
The wind that bends the pliant trees,
The whisper of the summer breeze;
The kiss of snow and rain; the star
That shines a greeting from afar;
All, all are mine; and yet so small
Am I, that lo, I needs must call,
Great King, upon the Babe in Thee,
And crave that Thou would'st give to me
The grace of Thy humility.
A German Christmas Eve
It was intensely cold; Father Rhine was frozen over, so he may
speak for it; and for days we had lived to the merry jangle and
clang of innumerable sleigh bells, in a white and frost-bound
world. As I passed through the streets, crowded with stolidly
admiring peasants from the villages round, I caught the dear
remembered 'Gruss Gott!' and 'All' Heil!' of the countryside, which
town life quickly stamps out along with many other gentle
observances.
"Gelobt sei Jesu Christ!" cried little Sister Hilarius, coming on
me suddenly at a corner, her round face aglow with the sharp air,
her arms filled with queer-shaped bundles. She begs for her sick
poor as she goes along - meat here, some bread there, a bottle of
good red wine: I fancy few refuse her. She nursed me once, the
good little sister, with unceasing care and devotion, and all the
dignity of a scant five feet. "Ach, Du lieber Gott, such gifts!"
she added, with a radiant smile, and vanished up a dirty stairway.
In the Quergasse a jay fell dead at my feet - one of the many birds
which perished thus - he had flown townwards too late. Up at the
Jagdschloss the wild creatures, crying a common truce of hunger,
trooped each day to the clearing by the Jager's cottage for the
food spread for them. The great tusked boar of the Taunus with his
brother of Westphalia, the timid roe deer with her scarcely braver
mate, foxes, hares, rabbits, feathered game, and tiny songbirds of
the woods, gathered fearlessly together and fed at the hand of
their common enemy - a millennial banquet truly.
The market-place was crowded, and there were Christmas trees
everywhere, crying aloud in bushy nakedness for their rightful
fruit. The old peasant women, rolled in shawls, with large
handkerchiefs tied over their caps, warmed their numb and withered
hands over little braziers while they guarded the gaily decked
treasure-laden booths, from whose pent-roofs Father Winter had hung
a fringe of glittering icicles.
Many of the stalls were entirely given over to Christmas-tree
splendours. Long trails of gold and silver Engelshaar, piles of
candles - red, yellow, blue, green, violet, and white - a rainbow of
the Christian virtues and the Church's Year; boxes of frost and
snow, festoons of coloured beads, fishes with gleaming scales,
glass-winged birds, Santa Klaus in frost-bedecked mantle and
scarlet cap, angels with trumpets set to their waxen lips; and
everywhere and above all the image of the Holy Child. Sometimes it
was the tiny waxen Bambino, in its pathetic helplessness; sometimes
the Babe Miraculous, standing with outstretched arms awaiting the
world's embrace - Mary's Son, held up in loving hands to bless; or
the Heavenly Child-King with crown and lily sceptre, borne high by
Joseph, that gentle, faithful servitor. It was the festival of
Bethlehem, feast of never-ending keeping, which has its crowning
splendour on Christmas Day.
A Sister passed with a fat, rosy little girl in either hand; they
were chattering merrily of the gift they were to buy for the dear
Christkind, the gift which Sister said He would send some ragged
child to receive for Him. They came back to the poor booth close
to where I was standing. It was piled with warm garments; and
after much consultation a little white vest was chosen - the elder
child rejected pink, she knew the Christkind would like white best-
-then they trotted off down a narrow turning to the church, and I
followed.
The Creche stood without the chancel, between the High Altar and
that of Our Lady of Sorrows. It was very simple. A blue paper
background spangled with stars; a roughly thatched roof supported
on four rude posts; at the back, ox and ass lying among the straw
with which the ground was strewn. The figures were life-size, of
carved and painted wood: Joseph, tall and dignified, stood as
guardian, leaning on his staff; Mary knelt with hands slightly
uplifted in loving adoration; and the Babe lay in front on a truss
of straw disposed as a halo. It was the World's Child, and the
position emphasised it. Two or three hard-featured peasants knelt
telling their beads; and a group of children with round, blue eyes
and stiff, flaxen pigtails, had gathered in front, and were
pointing and softly whispering. My little friends trotted up,
crossed themselves; it was evidently the little one's first visit.
"Guck! guck mal an," she cried, clapping her fat gloved hands,
"sieh mal an das Wickelkind!"
"Dass ist unser Jesu," said the elder, and the little one echoed
"Unser Jesu, unser Jesu!"
Then the vest was brought out and shown - why not, it was the
Christchild's own? - and the pair trotted away again followed by the
bright, patient Sister. Presently everyone clattered out, and I
was left alone at the crib of Bethlehem, the gate of the Kingdom of
Heaven.
It was my family, my only family; but like the ever-widening circle
on the surface of a lake into which a stone has been flung, here,
from this great centre, spread the wonderful ever-widening
relationship - the real brotherhood of the world. It is at the Crib
that everything has its beginning, not at the Cross; and it is only
as little children that we can enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.
When I went out again into the streets it was nearly dark. Anxious
mothers hurried past on late, mysterious errands; papas who were
not wanted until the last moment chatted gaily to each other at
street corners, and exchanged recollections; maidservants hastened
from shop to shop with large baskets already heavily laden; and the
children were everywhere, important with secrets, comfortably
secure in the knowledge of a tree behind the parlour doors, and a
kindly, generous Saint who knew all their wants, and needed no rod
THIS year.
One little lad, with a pinched white face, and with only an empty
certainty to look forward to, was singing shrilly in the sharp,
still air, "Zu Bethlehem geboren, ist uns ein Kindelein," as he
gazed wistfully at a shop window piled high with crisp gingerbread,
marzipan, chocolate under every guise, and tempting cakes. A great
rough peasant coming out, saw him, turned back, and a moment later
thrust a gingerbread Santa Klaus, with currant eyes and sugar
trimming to his coat and cap, into the half-fearful little hands.
"Hab' ebenso ein Kerlchen zu Haus'," he said to me apologetically
as he passed.
I waited to see Santa Klaus disappear; but no, the child looked at
the cake, sighed deeply with the cruel effort of resistance, and
refrained. It was all his Christmas and he would keep it. He
gazed and gazed, then a smile rippled across the wan little face
and he broke out in another carol, "Es kam ein Engel hell und klar
vom Himmel zu der Hirten Schaar," and hugging his Santa Klaus
carefully, wandered away down the now brilliant streets: he did
not know he was hungry any more; the angel had come with good
tidings.
As I passed along the streets I could see through the uncurtained
windows that in some houses Christmas had begun already for the
little ones. Then the bells rang out deep-mouthed, carrying the
call of the eager Church to her children, far up the valley and
across the frozen river. And they answered; the great church was
packed from end to end, and from my place by the door I saw that
two tiny Christmas trees bright with coloured candles burnt either
side of the Holy Child.
A blue-black sky ablaze with stars for His glory, a fresh white
robe for stained and tired earth; so we went to Bethlehem in the
rare stillness of the early morning. The Church, having no stars,
had lighted candles; and we poor sinful men having no white robes
of our own had craved them of the Great King at her hands.
And so in the stillness, with tapers within and stars alight
without, with a white-clad earth, and souls forgiven, the Christ
Child came to those who looked for His appearing.
A Christmas Idyll
The Child with the wondering eyes sat on the doorstep, on either
side of her a tramp cat in process of becoming a recognised member
of society. On the flagged path in front the brown brethren were
picking up crumbs. The cats' whiskers trembled, but they sat
still, proudly virtuous, and conscious each of a large saucer of
warm milk within.
"What," said the Child, "is a symbol?"
The cats looked grave.
The Child rose, went into the house, and returned with a well-
thumbed brown book. She turned the pages thoughtfully, and read
aloud, presumably for the benefit of the cats: "In a symbol there
is concealment yet revelation, the infinite is made to blend with
the finite, to stand visible, and as it were attainable there."
The Child sighed, "We had better go to the Recluse," she said. So
the three went.
It was a cold, clear, bright day, a typical Christmas Eve. There
was a carpet of crisp snow on the ground, and a fringe of icicles
hung from every vantage-point. The cats, not having been
accustomed to the delights of domesticity, trotted along cheerfully
despite the chill to their toes; and they soon came to the forest
which all three knew very well indeed. It was a beautiful forest
like a great cathedral, with long aisles cut between the splendid
upstanding pine trees. The green-fringed boughs were heavy with
snow, the straight strong stems caught and reflected the stray sun
rays, and looking up through the arches and delicate tracery and
interlaced branches the eye caught the wonderful blue of the great
domed roof overhead. The cats walked delicately, fearful of
temptation in the way of rabbits or frost-tamed birds, and the
Child lilted a quaint German hymn to a strange old tune:-
"Ein Kind gebor'n zu Bethlehem.
Alleluja!
Dess freuet sich Jerusalem,
Alleluja! Alleluja!"
The Recluse was sitting on a bench outside his cave. He was
dressed in a brown robe, his eyes were like stars wrapped in brown
velvet, his face was strong and gentle, his hair white although he
looked quite young. He greeted the Child very kindly and stroked
the cats.
"You have come to ask me a question, Child?"
"If you please," said the Child, "what is a symbol?"
"Ah," said the Recluse, "I might have known you would ask me that."
"The Sage says," went on the Child, "that it is concealment yet
revelation."
The Recluse nodded.
"Just as a mystery that we cannot understand is the greatest
possible wisdom. Go in and sit by my fire, Child; there are
chestnuts on the hearth, and you will find milk in the brown jug.
I will show you a symbol presently."
The Child and the two cats went into the cave and sat down by the
fire. It was warm and restful after the biting air. The cats
purred pleasantly, the Child sat with her chin in her hand watching
the glowing wood burn red and white on the great hearthstone.
"The Recluse generally answers my questions by showing me something
I have seen for a long time but never beheld, or heard and never
lent ear. I wonder what it will be this time," she said to
herself.
The grateful warmth made the Child sleepy, and she gave a start
when she found the Recluse standing by her with outstretched hand.
"Come, dear Child," he said; and leaving the sleeping cats she
followed him, her hand in his.
The air was full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry
of the bells.
The Child wondered, and then remembered it was Christmas night.
The Recluse led her down a little passage and opened a door. They
stepped out together, but not into the forest.
"This is the front door of my house," said the Recluse, with a
little smile.
They stood on a white road, on one side a stretch of limestone
down, on the other steep terraces with gardens and vineyard. The
air was soft and warm, and sweet with the breath of lilies. The
heaven was ablaze with stars; across the plain to the east the dawn
was breaking. A group of strangely-clad men went down the road
followed by a flock of sheep.
"Let us go with them," said the Recluse; and hand in hand they
went.
The road curved to the right; round the bend, cut in the living
rock, was a cave; the shepherds stopped and knelt, and there was no
sound but the soft rapid breathing of the flock. Then the Child
was filled with an overmastering longing, a desire so great that
the tears sprang hot to her eyes. She dropped the Recluse's hand
and went forward where the shepherds knelt. Once again the air was
full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry of the bells;
but within all was silence. The cave was rough-hewn, and stabled
an ox and an ass; close to the front a tall strong man leaning on a
staff kept watch and ward; within knelt a peasant Maid, and on a
heap of yellow straw lay a tiny new-born Babe loosely wrapped in a
linen cloth: around and above were wonderful figures of fire and
mist.
The infinite, visible and attainable.
The mystery which is the greatest possible wisdom.
* * * * *
"Come, Child," said the Recluse.
The fire had burnt low; it was quite dark, save for the glow of the
live embers.
He threw on a great dry pine log; it flared like a torch. The
cats' stretched in the sudden blaze, and then settled to sleep
again. The Child and the Recluse passed out into the forest. The
moon was very bright and the snow reflected its rays, so that it
was light in spite of the great trees. The air was full of
wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry of the bells; and the
Child sang as she went in a half-dream by the side of the Recluse:-
"In dieser heil'gen Weihnachtszeit,
Alleluja!
Sei, Gott der Herr, gebenedeit,
Alleluja! Alleluja!"
and wondered when she would wake up. They came to the old, old
church in the forest, and the pictured saints looked out at them
from the lighted window; through the open door they could see
figures moving about with tapers in their hands; save for these the
church was still empty.
The Recluse led the way up the nave to the north side of the Altar.
The Child started a little; she was really dreaming then a kind of
circular dream, for again she stood before the cave, again the
reverend figure kept watch and ward over the kneeling Maid and the
little Babe. The sheep and the shepherds were not there, but a
little lamb had strayed in; and the wonderful figures of fire and
mist - they were there in their place.
"Little one," said the Recluse softly, "here is a symbol -
concealment yet revelation - the King as servant - the strong
helpless - the Almighty a little child; and thus the infinite stands
revealed for all of us, visible and attainable, if we will have it
so. It is the centre of all mystery, the greatest possible wisdom,
the Eternal Child."
"You showed it me before," said the Child, "only we were out of
doors, and the shepherds were there with the sheep; but the angels
are here just the same."
The Recluse bowed his head.
"Wait for me here with them, dear Child, I will fetch you after
service."
The church began to fill; old men in smock frocks and tall hats,
little children wrapped warm against the cold, lads, shining and
spruce, old women in crossed shawls and wonderful bonnets. The
service was not very long; then the Recluse went up into the old
grey stone pulpit. The villagers settled to listen - he did not
often preach.
"My brothers and sisters, to-night we keep the Birth of the Holy
Babe, and to-night you and I stand at the gate of the Kingdom of
Heaven, the gate which is undone only at the cry of a little child.
'Except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shall not
enter.'
"The Kingdom is a great one, nay, a limitless one; and many enter
in calling it by another name. It includes your own hearts and
this wonderful forest, all the wise and beautiful works that men
have ever thought of or done, and your daily toil; it includes your
nearest and dearest, the outcast, the prisoner, and the stranger;
it holds your cottage home and the jewelled City, the New Jerusalem
itself. People are apt to think the Kingdom of Heaven is like
church on Sunday, a place to enter once a week in one's best:
whereas it holds every flower, and has room for the ox and the ass,
and the least of all creatures, as well as for our prayer and
worship and praise.
"'Except ye become as little children.' How are we to be born
again, simple children with wondering eyes?
"We must learn to lie in helpless dependence, to open our mouth
wide that it may be filled, to speak with halting tongue the
language we think we know; we must learn above all our own
ignorance, and keep alight and cherish the flame of innocency in
our hearts.
"It is a tired world, my brethren, and we are most of us tired men
and women who live on it, for we seek ever after some new thing.
Let us pass out through the gate into the Kingdom of Heaven and not
be tired any more, because there we shall find the new thing that
we seek. Heaven is on earth, the Kingdom is here and now; the gate
stands wide to-night, for it is the birthright of the Eternal
Child. We are none of us too poor, or stupid, or lowly; it was the
simple shepherds who saw Him first. We are none of us too great,
or learned, or rich; it was the three wise kings who came next and
offered gifts. We are none of us too young; it was little children
who first laid down their lives for Him; or too old, for Simeon saw
and recognised Him. There is only one thing against most of us - we
are too proud.
"My brethren, 'let us now go even to Bethlehem, and face this thing
which is come to pass, which the LORD hath made known unto us.'"
The lights were out in the church when the Recluse came to fetch
the Child. She was still kneeling by the creche, keeping watch
with the wonderful figures of fire and mist.
"Was THIS a dream or the other?" said the Child.
"Neither," said the Recluse, and he blessed her in the moonlit
dark.
The air was full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry
of the bells.
The Manifestation
God said; "Let there be light"; and in the East
A star rose flaming from night's purple sea -
The star of Truth, the star of Joy, the star
Seen by the prophets down the lonely years;
Set for a light to show the Perfect Way;
Set for a sign that wayfarers might find;
Set for a seal to mark the Godhead's home.
And three Kings in their palaces afar,
Who waited ardently for promised things,
Beheld, and read aright. Straightway the road
Was hot with pad of camel, horse's hoof,
While night was quick as day with spurring men
And light with flaring torch. "Haste, haste!" they cried,
"We seek the King, the King! for in the East
His star's alight."
BETHLEHEM
The Angels
Soft and slow, soft and slow,
With angels' wings of fire and snow,
To rock Him gently to and fro.
Fire to stay the chill at night,
Snow to cool the noonday bright;
And overhead His star's alight.
Pale and sweet, pale and sweet,
Maid Mary keeps her vigil meet,
While Joseph waits with patient feet.
Mary's love for soft embrace,
Joseph's strength to guard the place.
Lo! from the East Kings ride apace.
Gold and myrrh, gold and myrrh,
Frankincense for harbinger,
Myrrh to make His sepulchre.
Roses white and roses red,
Thorns arrayed for His dear Head.
Hail! hail! Wise Men who seek His bed
Joseph
Little One, Little One, Saviour and Child,
Father and Mother, my Husband and Son;
Born of the lily, the maid undefiled,
Babe of my Love, the Beatified One.
Little One, Little One, Master and LORD,
Kings of the Earth come, desiring Thy Face;
I, Thy poor servitor, lowly afford
All that my life holds, for all is Thy Grace.
Little One, Little One, GOD over all,
Earth is thy footstool, and Heav'n is Thy throne:
Joseph the carpenter, prostrate I fall;
Praise thee, adore Thee, and claim Thee mine own.
Maid Mary
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, my heart's delight,
The myrrh between my breasts at night,
My little Rose, my Lily white,
My Babe for whom the star's alight.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, GOD'S only SON,
Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun;
Desire of nations, Promised One
When Eve was first by sin undone.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, the whole world's Child!
Born of each heart that's undefiled,
Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild,
And in the arms of Love asiled.
Babe, dear Babe!
My crown of glory, sorrow's sword,
My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord,
My Saviour and my great Reward;
My little Son, my Babe adored.
The Three Kings
Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King!
To Thy dear Feet
Our offerings meet
With bended knee we bring;
O mighty baby King,
Accept the offering.
First King
LORD, I stoop low
My head of snow,
Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least!
And swing the censer for the Priest,
The Priest with hands upraised to bless,
The Priest of this world's bitterness.
As I stoop low
My head of snow,
Bless me, O Priest, before I go.
Second King
Behold me, King!
A man of might,
Who rules dominions infinite;
Strong in the harvest of the years,
And one who counts no kings as peers.
O little King,
Behold my crown!
I lay it down,
And bow before Thy lowly bed
My all unworthy uncrowned head,
For I am naught and Thou art All.
And Thou shalt climb a throne set high,
Between sad earth and silent sky,
Thereon to agonize and die;
And at Thy Feet the world shall fall.
Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King,
Behold the world's imagining!
Third King
Out of the shadow of the night
I come, led by the starshine bright,
With broken heart to bring to Thee
The fruit of Thine Epiphany,
The gift my fellows send by me,
The myrrh to bed Thine agony.
I set it here beneath Thy Feet,
In token of Death's great defeat;
And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife;
And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life.
All hail! All hail the Virgin's Son!
All hail! Thou little helpless One!
All hail! Thou King upon the Tree!
All hail! The Babe on Mary's knee,
The centre of all mystery!
All Souls' Day in a German Town
The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs
Whispers the world's infirmities,
Whispers the tale of the waning years,
While slow mists gather in shrouding tears
On All Souls' Day; and the bells are slow
In steeple and tower. Sad folk go
Away from the township, past the mill,
And mount the slope of a grassy hill
Carved into terraces broad and steep,
To the inn where wearied travellers sleep,
Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows,
And no man stirs in his long repose.
They wend their way past the haunts of life,
Father and daughter, grandmother, wife,
To deck with candle and deathless cross,
The house which holds their dearest loss.
I, who stand on the crest of the hill,
Watch how beneath me, busied still,
The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers.
Awhile the veil of the twilight hours
Falls softly, softly, over the hill,
Shadows the cross:- creeps on until
Swiftly upon us is flung the dark.
Then, as if lit by a sudden spark,
Each grave is vivid with points of light,
Earth is as Heaven's mirror to-night;
The air is still as a spirit's breath,
The lights burn bright in the realm of Death.
Then silent the mourners mourning go,
Wending their way to the church below;
While the bells toll out to bid them speed,
With eager Pater and prayerful bead,
The souls of the dead, whose bodies still
Lie in the churchyard under the hill;
While they wait and wonder in Paradise,
And gaze on the dawning mysteries,
Praying for us in our hours of need;
For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead
Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.
Rivers and Streams
Running water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of
which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the
guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as
well as for drooping flowers; and they who wander in the garden of
God with listening ears learn of its many voices.
When the strain of a working day has left me weary, perhaps
troubled and perplexed, I find my way to the river. I step into a
boat and pull up stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and
then I make fast to the old alder-stump where last year the reed-
piper nested, and lie back in the stern and think.
The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the
current; the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side
eddies, of course, and little disturbing whirlpools near the big
stones, but they are all gathered into the broad sweep of the
stream, carried down to the great catholic sea. And while I listen
to the murmur of the water and watch its quiet strength the day's
wrinkles are smoothed out of my face; and at last the river bears
me homeward rested and at peace.
There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart
from the world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore
heart. Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the
banks, a solitary not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch
the stream 'never hasting, never resting': the grass that grows
beside it is always green, the flowers are fresh; it makes long
embracing curves - I could cross from point to point in a minute,
but to follow takes five. The ways of the water are ways of
healing; I have a companion who makes no mistakes, touches none of
my tender spots.
Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide
sweep. Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green
leaves and wait for their lover the moon; for then they open their
silvery leaves and bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath
the hot rays of the sun. Then, too, the buds rise out of the water
and the moon kisses them into bloom and fragrance. Near by are the
little yellow water-lilies, set for beauty against a background of
great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall feathery meadowsweet. The
river still sweeps on its way, but the pool is undisturbed; it lies
out of the current. They say it is very deep - no one knows quite
how deep - and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through the
clear water, following the thick lily-stalks - a forest where solemn
carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze -
and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its
stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and
the evening glow lying at my feet.
I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with
flowers of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that
reflect, in light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.
I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town
where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the
old grey church stands out clear and distinct against the fading
sky.
* * * * *
One of the happiest memories of my childhood is the little brook in
the home field. I know it was not a very clean little brook - it
passed through an industrious manufacturing world - but to me then
this mattered not at all.
Where it had its source I never found out; it came from a little
cave in the side of the hill, and I remember that one of its banks
was always higher than the other. I once sought to penetrate the
cave, but with sad results in the shape of bed before dinner and no
pudding, such small sympathy have one's elders with the spirit of
research. Just beyond the cave the brook was quite a respectable
width, - even my big boy cousin fell into mud and disgrace when he
tried to jump it - and there was a gravelly beach, at least several
inches square, where we launched our boats of hollowed elder-wood.
Soon, however, it narrowed, it could even be stepped over; but it
was still exciting and delightful, with two perilous rapids over
which the boats had to be guided, and many boulders - for the brook
was a brave stream, and had fashioned its bed in rocky soil.
Further down was our bridge, one flat stone dragged thither by
really herculean efforts. It was unnecessary, but a triumph. A
little below this outcome of our engineering skill the brook
widened again before disappearing under a flagged tunnel into the
neighbouring field. Here, in the shallows, we built an aquarium.
It was not altogether successful, because whenever it rained at all
hard the beasts were washed out; but there was always joy in
restocking it. Under one of the banks close by lived a fat frog
for whom I felt great respect. We used to sit and gaze at each
other in silent intercourse, until he became bored - I think I never
did - and flopped into the water with a splash.
But it was the brook itself that was my chief and dearest
companion. It chattered and sang to me, and told me of the goblins
who lived under the hill, of fairies dancing on the grass on
moonlight nights, and scolding the pale lilac milk-maids on the
banks; and of a sad little old man dressed in brown, always sad
because his dear water-children ran away from him when they heard
the voice of the great river telling them of the calling of the
sea.
It spoke to me of other more wonderful things, not even now to be
put into words, things of the mysteries of a child's imagination;
and these linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until
they are fulfilled.
* * * * *
I have another friend - a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring
when the fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do
not even know its name; it has its source up among the old grey
tors, and doubtless in its beginning had a hard fight for
existence. When it reaches the plain it is a good-sized stream,
although nowhere navigable. I do not think it even turns a mill;
it just flows along and waters the flowers. I have seen it with my
bodily eyes only once; but it has left in my life a blessing, a
picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling water - and
whispered secrets not forgotten.
All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They
chatter cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their
bed. Some of them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past,
of the worship of the false god when blood stained the clear
waters; tales, too, of feud and warfare, of grave council and
martial gathering; and happy stories of fairy and pixy our eyes are
too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen with foreign ways and
terror of all human beings. Their banks are bright with tormentil,
blue with forget-me-not, rich in treasures of starry moss; the