LET THERE BE JOY!

(A Christmas carol from the Scotch Gaelic)

This is now the blessed morn,
When was born the Virgin’s Son,
Who from heights of glorious worth,
Unto earth His way has won;
All the heav’ns grow bright to greet Him,
Forth to meet Him, ev’ry one!

All hail! let there be joy!
All hail! let there be joy!

Mountains praise, with purple splendour,
Plains, with tender tints, the morn;
Shout, ye waves, with prophesying
Voices crying, “Christ is born!
Christ, the Son of heav’n’s High King,
Therefore sing no more forlorn!”

All hail! let there be joy!
All hail! let there be joy!

A HOLIDAY HYMN

He, unto whom the Heavenly Father
Hath in His works Himself revealed,
Sees with rapt eyes the glory gather
O’er hill and forest, flood and field.

He, when the torrent laughs in thunder,
Larks soar exulting in the blue,
Thrills with the waterfall’s glad wonder,
Far up to heaven goes singing too;

Wanders, a child among the daisies;
Ponders, a poet, all things fair;
Wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises,
Weaves with eve’s passion-flowers his prayer;

Full sure that He who reared the mountain,
Made smooth the valley, plumed the height,
Holds in clear air the lark and fountain
Shall yet uplift him into light.

SUMMER MORNING’S WALK

’Tis scarcely four by the village clock,
The dew is heavy, the air is cool
A mist goes up from the glassy pool,
Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock:
No sound is heard but the magpie’s mock.

Very low is the sun in the sky,
It needeth no eagle now to regard him.
Is there not one lark left to reward him
With the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry,
For sad he seemeth, I know not why.

Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm
There glides and gazes a sadder face;
Spectre Queen of a vanished race
’Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film,
And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.

These are but selfish fancies, I know,
Framed to solace a secret grief
Look again scorning such false relief
Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe
Look again! whence do these fancies flow?

What is the moon but a lamp of fire
That God shall relume in His season? the Sun,
Like a giant, rejoices his race to run
With flaming feet that never tire
On the azure path of the starry choir.

The lark has sung ere I left my bed:
And hark! far aloft from those ladders of light
Many songs, not one only, the morn delight.
Then, sad heart, dream not that Nature is dead,
But seek from her strength and comfort instead.

SNOW-STAINS

The snow had fallen and fallen from heaven,
Unnoticed in the night,
As o’er the sleeping sons of God
Floated the manna white;
And still, though small flowers crystalline
Blanched all the earth beneath,
Angels with busy hands above
Renewed the airy wreath;
When, white amid the falling flakes,
And fairer far than they,
Beside her wintry casement hoar
A dying woman lay.
“More pure than yonder virgin snow
From God comes gently down,
I left my happy country home,”
She sighed, “to seek the town,
More foul than yonder drift shall turn,
Before the sun is high,
Downtrodden and defiled of men,
More foul,” she wept, “am I.”

“Yet, as in midday might confessed,
Thy good sun’s face of fire
Draws the chaste spirit of the snow
To meet him from the mire,
Lord, from this leprous life in death
Lift me, Thy Magdalene,
That rapt into Redeeming Light
I may once more be clean.”

REMEMBRANCE

(To music)

The fairest blooming flower
Before the sun must fade;
Each leaf that lights the bower
Must fall at last decayed!
Like these we too must wither,
Like these in earth lie low,
None answering whence or whither
We come, alas! or go.

None answering thee? thou sayest,
Nay, mourner, from thy heart,
If but in faith thou prayest,
The Voice Divine shall start;
“I gave and I have taken,
If thou wouldst comfort win
To cheer thy life forsaken,
I knock, O, let me in!

“Thy loved ones have but folden
Their earthly garments by,
And through Heaven’s gateway golden
Gone gladly up on high.
O, if thou wouldst be worthy
To share their joy anon,
Cast off, cast off the earthy,
And put the heavenly on!”

SANDS OF GOLD

Hope gave into my trembling hands
An hour-glass running golden sands,
And Love’s immortal joys and pains
I measured by its glancing grains.
But Evil Fortune swooped, alas!
Remorseless on the magic glass,
And shivered into idle dust
The radiant record of my trust.

Long I mated with Despair
And craved for Death with ceaseless prayer;
Till unto my sick-bed side
There stole a Presence angel-eyed.

“If thou wouldst heal thee of thy wound,”
Her voice to heavenly harps attuned
Bespake me, “Let the sovran tide
Within this glass thy future guide.”
Therewith she gave into my hands
No hour-glass running golden sands,
Only a horologe forlorn
Set against a cross of thorn,
And cold and stern the current seemed
That through its clouded crystal gleamed.

“Immortal one,” I cried, “make plain
This cure of my consuming pain.
Open my eyes to understand,
And sift the secrets of this sand,
And measure by its joyless grains
What yet of life to me remains.”

“The sand,” she said, “that glimmers grey
Within this glass, but yesterday
Was dust at Dives’ bolted door
Shaken by God’s suffering poor;
Then by blasts of heaven upblown
Before the Judge upon His throne
To swell the ever-gathering cloud
Of witnesses against the proud
The dust of throats that knew no slaking,
The dust of brows for ever aching
Dust unto dust with life’s last breath
Sighed into the urn of Death.”

With tears I took that cross of thorn,
With tears that horologe forlorn.
And all my moments by its dust
I measure now with prayerful trust,
And though my courage oft turns weak,
Fresh comfort from that cross I seek;
In wistful hope I yet may wake
To find the thorn in blossom break,
And from life’s shivered glass behold
My being’s sands ebb forth in gold.

THE MOURNER

When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow
Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner’s bed,
Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow
For his beloved one dead,
If all be not in vain, his passionate prayer
Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue,
To fall transfigured back on his despair
In drops of Heavenly dew;

Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing
Of incense from his soul’s hushed altar start,
And still return to rise with rich increasing,
A well-spring from his heart;
Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing
Through other lives shall still run radiant on,
Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing,
Long after he is gone.

DE PROFUNDIS

Out of the darkness I call;
I stretch forth my hands unto Thee.
Loose these fetters that foully enthral;
To their lock Thou alone hast the key.
Low at Thy footstool I fall,
Forgive and Thy servant is free!

Folly took hold of my time,
On pleasure I perched, to my woe;
I was snared in The Evil One’s lime
And now all his promptings I know.
Crimson as blood is my crime.
Yet Thou canst wash whiter than snow.

Heaven overhead is one frown;
About me the black waters rave;
To the deep I go dreadfully down;
O pluck my feet out of the grave;
Lord! I am sinking, I drown,
O save, for Thou only canst save.

IMMORTAL HOPE

Summer hath too short a date
Autumn enters, ah! how soon,
Scattering with scornful hate
All the flowers of June.
Nay say not so,
Nothing here below
But dies
To rise
Anew with rarer glow.

Now, no skylarks singing soar
Sunward, now, beneath the moon
Love’s own nightingale no more
Lifts her magic tune!
Nay, say not so,
But awhile they go;
Their strain
Again
All heaven shall overflow.

WE HAD A CHILD

We had a child, a little Fairy Prince,
Let loose from Elfland for our heart’s delight;
Ah! was it yesterday or four years since
He beamed upon our sight?
Four years and yet it seems but yesterday
Since the blue wonder of his baby eyes.
Beneath their ebon-fringed canopies,
Subdued us to his sway.

Three years and yet but yestermorn it seems
Since first upon his feet he swaying stood,
Buoyed bravely up by memory’s magic dreams
Of elfin hardihood.
He stood, the while that long-forgotten lore
Lit all his lovely face with frolic glee;
And then O marvel! to his mother’s knee
Walked the wide nursery floor.

Two years gone by ah, no! but yesterday
Our bright-eyed nursling, swift as we could teach,
Forsook the low soft croonings of the fay
For broken human speech
Broken, yet to our ears divinelier broken
Than sweetest snatches from Heavens mounting bird
More eloquent than the poet’s passionate word
Supremely sung or spoken.

But O, our darling in his joyful dance
Tottered death-pale beneath the withering north,
Into a kinder clime, most blessed chance,
We caught him swiftly forth,
And there he bloomed again, our fairy boy,
Two year-long Aprils through in sun and shower,
Wing-footed Mercury of each merry hour,
The Genius of our joy.

And evermore we shared his shifting mood
Of hide-and-seek with April joy and sorrow,
Till not one shadow of solicitude
Remained to mar our morrow;
Yea, every fear had flown, lest, welladay!
The headlong heats or winter’s piercing power
Should light afresh upon our radiant flower
And wither him away.

We had a child, a little fairy child,
He kissed us on the lips but yesternight,
Yet when he wakened his blue eyes were wild
With fevered light.
We had a child what countless ages since,
Did he go forth from us with wildered brain,
Will he come back and kiss us once again
Our little Fairy Prince?

BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SICK CHILD

O Thou by whose eternal plan
Ages arise and roll,
Who in Thine image madest man
To search him to the soul,
If e’er in token of the Cross,
With infant arms outspread,
Thou sawest Thy Beloved toss
In anguish on His bed;
Or heardest in the childish cry
That pierced the cottage room
The voice of Christ in agony
Breaking from Calvary’s gloom,
Give ear! and from Thy Throne above
With eyes of mercy mild,
Look down, of Thine immortal love,
Upon our suffering child.

Though Earth’s physicians all in vain
Have urged their utmost skill,
Yet to our prayers O make it plain
That Thou canst succour still;
Yea! through the midnight watches drear,
And all the weary day,
O be Thy Good Physician near
Our stricken one to stay;
That evermore as we succeed
In service at his side,
Each office of our darling’s need
His heavenly hands may guide;
Till o’er his tempest bed of pain,
His cry of perishing thrill
The Saviour’s arm go forth again,
The Saviour’s “Peace! be still.”

Too well, O Lord, too well we know
How oft upon Thy way
Our feet have followed faint and slow,
How often turned astray
For fleeting pleasures to forsake
Thy path of heavenly prayer;
We have deserved that Thou shouldst take
Our children from our care.
Yet, O Good Shepherd, lead us back,
Our lamb upon Thy breast,
Safely along the narrow track,
Across the dangerous crest;
Until our aching eyes rejoice
At Salem’s shining walls,
And to our thirsting souls a Voice
Of Living Waters calls.

HE HAS COME BACK

Without the wintry sky is overcast,
The floods descend, fierce hail and rushing rain,
Whilst ever and anon the angry blast
Clutches the casement-pane.
Within our darling beats an angrier air
With piteous outstretched arms and tossing head,
Whilst we, bowed low beside his labouring bed,
Pour all our hearts in prayer.

Is this the end? The tired little hands
Fall by his side, the wild eyes close at last,
Breathless he sinks, almost we hear his sands
Of being ebbing past;
When, O miraculous! he wakes once more,
Love glowing in his glance, the while there slips
“Mother, dear Mother!” from his trembling lips,
“Dear Mother!” o’er and o’er.

He has come back, our little Fairy Child,
Back from his wanderings in the dreadful dark,
Back o’er the furious surge of fever wild,
The lost dove of our ark;
Back, slowly back o’er the dire flood’s decrease
The white wings flutter, only our God knows how,
Bearing aloft the blessed olive bough
Of His compassionate peace.

SPRING’S SECRETS

As once I paused on poet wing
In the green heart of a grove,
I met the Spirit of the Spring
With her great eyes lit of love.

She took me gently by the hand
And whispered in my wondering ear
Secrets none may understand,
Till she make their meaning clear;

Why the primrose looks so pale,
Why the rose is set with thorns;
Why the magic nightingale
Through the darkness mourns and mourns;

How the angels, as they pass
In their vesture pure and white
O’er the shadowy garden grass,
Touch the lilies into light;

How their hidden hands upbear
The fledgling throstle in the air,
And lift the lowly lark on high,
And hold him singing in the sky;

What human hearts delight her most;
The careless child with roses crowned,
The mourner, knowing that his lost
Shall in the Eternal Spring be found.

THE LORD’S LEISURE

Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord!
Ever the wise upon Him wait;
Early they sorrow, suffer late,
Yet at the last have their reward.

Shall then the very King sublime
Keep thee and me in constant thought,
Out of the countless names of naught
Swept on the surging stream of time?

Ah, but the glorious sun on high,
Searching the sea, fold on fold,
Gladdens with coronals of gold
Each troubled billow heaving by.

Though he remove him for a space,
Though gloom resume the sleeping sea,
Yet of his beams her dreams shall be,
Yet shall his face renew her grace.

Then when sorrow is outpoured,
Pain chokes the channels of thy blood,
Think upon the sun and the flood,
Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord.

SPRING IS NOT DEAD

Snow on the earth, though March is wellnigh over;
Ice on the flood;
Fingers of frost where late the hawthorn cover
Burgeoned with bud.
Yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding,
Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding,
Yet from the root the sap still upward springing,
Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing,
“Spring is not dead!”

Brows fringed with snow, the furrowed brows of sorrow,
Cheeks pale with care:
Pulses of pain that throb from night till morrow;
Hearts of despair!
O, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches,
Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches,
April’s own smile shall yet succeed your sighing,
April’s own voice set every song-bird crying,
“Spring is not dead!”

AIM NOT TOO HIGH

(To an Old English air)

Aim not too high at things beyond thy reach
Nor give the rein to reckless thought or speech.
Is it not better all thy life to bide
Lord of thyself than all the earth beside?

Then if high Fortune far from thee take wing,
Why shouldst thou envy Counsellor or King?
Purple or buckram wherefore make ado
What coat may cover, so the heart be true?

But if at last thou gather wealth at will,
Thou best shalt succour those that need it still;
Since he who best doth poverty endure,
Should prove when rich heart’s brother to the poor.

WILD WINE OF NATURE

IN PRAISE OF WATER-DRINKING

(After Duncan Ban McIntyre)

Wild Wine of Nature, honey tasted,
Ever streaming, never wasted,
From long and long and long ago
In limpid, cool, life-giving flow
Up-bubbling with its cordial bland
Even from the thirsty desert sand
O draught to quench man’s thirst upon
Far sweeter than the cinnamon!
Like babes upon their mother’s breast,
To Earth our craving lips are pressed
For her free gift of matchless price,
Pure as it poured in Paradise.

BRIDAL INVOCATION

Jesu, from to-day
Guide us on our way,
So shall we, no moment wasting,
Follow Thee with holy hasting,
Led by Thy dear Hand
To the Blessed land.

Through despondence dread,
Still support our tread;
Though our heavy burdens bow us,
How to bear them bravely, show us!
Such adversity
Is but the path to Thee.

When our bosom’s grief
Clamours for relief,
When we share another’s sorrow,
May we Thy sweet patience borrow,
That to our Heavenly Father’s Will
We may trust each issue still.

Thus our onward way,
Order day by day,
Though upon rough roads Thou set us,
Thy fond care shall ne’er forget us,
Till “underneath Death’s darkening door;
We see the glimmering of Heaven’s floor.”

THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD AND A VISION OF THE GRAIL

At the solemn Feast of Pentecost Arthur the King and his chosen Knights
Sat, as we sit, in the Court of Camelot side by side at The Table Round.
None made music, none held converse, none knew hunger, none were athirst,
Each possessed with the same strange longing, each fulfilled with one
awful hope;
Each of us fearing even to whisper what he felt to his bosom friend,
Lest the spell should be snapped in sunder.

Thus we sat awaiting a sign!
When, on a sudden, out of the distance blared the bugle that hangs at
the gate;
Loud the barbican leaped on its hinges; and the hollow porch and the
vacant hall
And the roof of the long resounding corridor echoed the advent of unknown
feet,
The feet of a stranger approaching the threshold step by step irresistibly:
Till opened yonder door and through it strode to this Table the Virgin
Knight
Strode and stood with uplifted vizor.

Fear fell on all, save only the King!
Uprose Arthur, unbarred his helmet; shone confessed the countenance chaste.
Then, for so the Spirit inspired him, set the youth on the Perilous Seat;
Brake as he pressed it a Peal of thunder and paled the firelight, paled
the lamps,
Such a sudden stream of splendour flooded the Feast with miraculous light;
Whilst, O Wonder! round the Table swathed in samite, dazzling bright,
Passed the Presence, mystical, shadowy, ghostly gliding the Holy Grail,
Passed, though none could its shape discover, nay, not even the Virgin
Knight,
Passed, passed with strains seraphic, incense odours, rainbow hues
Passed, passed, and where it entered, suddenly melted out of sight.

ASK WHAT THOU WILT

Thy blood was spilt
From death to set us free;
Ask what Thou wilt,
’Tis consecrate to Thee!
Thy hands and feet
For us the nails went through.
What is most meet,
Bid ours for Thee to do.
Ask what Thou wilt.

All round Thy Brows
The Throne of Heavenly thought,
Divine Wisdoms house
For us the thorns were wrought;
Therefore, though dust
In balance with Thy pains,
Take Thou, in trust,
The travail of our brains!
Ask what Thou wilt.

Thy Heart of Love
With all its human aches,
By the spear’s proof,
Was broken for our sakes;
Our hearts, therefore,
And all we love and own
Are ours no more,
But Thine and Thine alone.
Ask what Thou wilt.

Though homes be riven,
At Thy supreme behest,
Yea! the sword driven
Through many a mother’s breast;
Thy blood was spilt
From death to set us free;
Ask what Thou wilt
’Tis consecrate to Thee.
Ask what Thou wilt.