FOR “THE GARLAND OF RACHEL” (1881)

What hand may wreathe thy natal crown,

O tiny tender Spirit-blossom,

That out of Heaven hast fluttered down

Into this Earth's cold bosom?

And how shall mortal bard aspire—

All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden—

To welcome, with the Seraph-choir,

A pure and perfect Maiden?

Are not God's minstrels ever near,

Flooding with joy the woodland mazes?

Which shall we summon, Baby dear,

To carol forth thy praises?

With sweet sad song the Nightingale

May soothe the broken hearts that languish

Where graves are green—the orphans' wail,

The widow's lonely anguish:

The Turtle-dove with amorous coo

May chide the blushing maid that lingers

To twine her bridal wreath anew

With weak and trembling fingers:

But human loves and human woes

Would dim the radiance of thy glory—

Only the Lark such music knows

As fits thy stainless story.

 

 

The world may listen as it will—

She recks not, to the skies up-springing:

Beyond our ken she singeth still

For very joy of singing.