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Is that trembling cry a song? And their sun does never shine, For where-e'er the sun does shine, |
O what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London town! Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, |
Not so those women loved Not so the Sun and Moon Yet give not o'er, |
Because I never knew your care to tire, Because so often you have hearkened to |
PART I. A couple old sat o'er the fire, Deep in the wood the old pair dwelt, The son, alas! Had grown apace, With puffing lips and shambling feet, He whistled high, he whistled low, Without a fear of beast or bird, He feared the werewolf in the wood, "Ah! we are old," the woman said, "We are forgotten of all men; "We have no kin," the mother said, Again she spoke, "No friend or kin, "And who shall give him bite or sup? And when the woman ceased, the man The Christ upon the Hill --so gaunt High reared against a cliff it stood, For deadly was the pass beyond, But not for fear of beast or fiend, Before the Rood their simple son (For he had gone before with feet And they were faint, and, ere they prayed, But, now the birds were flown away, Full long he sat and never moved; "It is an image made of wood, And gazed again, so earnestly "'Tis but the shadow of a bird And then the father said, "My son, "No food?" the silly youth replied, And now the old man held his peace, "It is God's will," they said, and knelt, And they could smile when Michael left The couple sat before the fire, It shook the roof with shocks of wind; 'Twas Michael's beacon, -- gone to feed And now and then they turned a log, "I hoped that it was God himself," And then the mother cried aloud, "Hark!" cried the man, and through the storm And then a cry for help, and out "He lives, he lives," he wildly cried; They brought Him in and laid Him down, They washed His wounds, and at their touch They brought to moisten His dry lips And soon without the help of hand He sat up in the chair then, The thorns upon His forehead The blankets that bewrapped Him The very chair He sat on He stretched an arm to Michael, And then His lips were opened, "I am the King of Glory; "You took Me in and clothed Me; "And you have suffered also, "But I am Prince of Sorrow, "Your son, your only son, is safe "And I will give him peace and joy He rose, His arms around their son; |
But now the second Morning, from her bow'r, Th' engladded Spring, forgetfull now to weep, And now the taller Sons (whom Titan warms) Say Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, Answer me Jordan, why thy crooked tide And, thou fair Spouse of Earth, that every year, Ye primroses, and purple violets, There should the Earth herself with garlands new There might the violet, and primrose sweet Their Lord, before by other judg'd to die, Whose garment was before indipt in blood, So fairest Phosphor the bright morning star, So long He wander'd in our lower sphere, The rest, that yet amazed stood below, Toss up your heads ye everlasting gates, Hark how the floods clap their applauding hands, Out leap the antique Patriarchs, all in haste, To which the Saints victorious carols sung, Nor can the Martyrs wounds' them stay behind, So him they lead into the courts of day,
brag = Brisk, lively |
LORD, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poor: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin, That I became Most thin. With thee Let me combine And feel this day thy victory For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me. NOTE: |
In heaven at his manor I him sought: I straight return'd, and knowing his great birth, Of thieves and murderers: there I him espied, |
For now He cometh forth Yea, Death, great Death is dead, Cometh the Wrestler, |
In many a battling river Now robins chant the story His countenance is lightning O who can be a stranger Undaunted by Decembers, |
"Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine But none of the ransomed ever knew "Lord, whence are those blood drops all the way And all through the mountains, thunder-riven, |
Upon the Cross of Jesus, I take, O Cross, thy shadow |
THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendor and in light the Pope passed home. My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest: "Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest, I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears." |
My life is like a faded leaf, My life is like a broken bowl, Note: For lines 5 and 6, refer to Psalms 121:1 ... "I lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help" |
SEE the land, her Easter keeping, Rises as her Maker rose. Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows. Earth with heaven above rejoices; Fields and gardens hail the spring; Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, While the wild birds build and sing. You, to whom your Maker granted Powers to those sweet birds unknown, Use the craft by God implanted; Use the reason not your own. Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, Each his Easter tribute bring Work of fingers, chant of voices, Like the birds who build and sing. |
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