Through the wild wood went Marien,
For many a weary day:
Her food the forest-fruits, and on
The forest-turf she lay.
The wildern wood was skirted
By moorlands dry and brown;
And after them came Marien
Into a little town.
At entrance of the little town
A cross stood by the way,
A rude stone cross, and there she knelt
A little prayer to say.
Then on the stone-steps sate her down;
And soon beside her crept,
A pale child with a clasped book,
And all the while he wept.
“Why weep you, child,” asked Marien,
“What troubleth you so sore?”
At these words spoken tenderly,
The child wept more and more.
“I have not heard,” at length he said,
“Kinds words this many a year,
My mother is dead--and my father
Is a hard man and severe.
“I sit in corners of the house
Where none can see me weep;
And in the quiet of the day
’Tis here I often creep.
“The kid leaps by his mother’s side,
The singing birds are glad:
But when I play me in the sun,
My heart is ever sad.
“They say this blessed book can heal
All trouble, and therefore
All day I keep it in my sight;
I lay it ’neath my head at night,
But it doth bring no cure to me:--
I know not what the cause may be,
For I of learning have no store!”
Thereat, like to a broken flower
The child drooped down his head;
Then Marien took the clasped book
And of the Saviour read.
She read of him the humble child
Of poverty and scorn;
How holy angels sang for him
The night that he was born.
How blessed angels came from heaven
To hail the Christmas night,
And shepherd people with their flocks
Beheld the glorious sight.
Then read she how, a growing youth,
His parents he obeyed,
And served with unrepining will
St. Joseph at his trade.
Then how he grew to man’s estate
And wandered up and down,
Preaching upon the lone sea-side,
And in the busy town.
Of all his tenderness, his love,
Page after page she read;
How he made whole the sick, the maimed,
And how he raised the dead.
And how he loved the children small,
Even of low degree;
And how he blessed them o’er and o’er,
And set them on his knee.
When this the little child had heard
He spoke in accents low,
“Would that I had been one with them
To have been blessed so!”
“Thou shalt be blessed, gentle one!”
Said Marien kind and mild,
“Christ, the Great Comforter, doth bless
Thee, even now, poor child!”
So conversed they of holy things
Until the closing day
Then Marien and the little child
Rose up to go their way.
As to the town they came, they passed
An ancient church, and “here
Let us go in!” the pale child said,
“For the organ pealeth over head,
And that sweet strain of holy sound
Like a heavenly vesture wraps me round,
And my heavy heart doth cheer.”
So Marien and the little child
Into the church they stole;
And many voices rich and soft
Rose upward from the organ loft,
And the majestic instrument
Pealed to an anthem that was sent
To soothe a troubled soul.
Anon the voices died away,
The pealing organ ceased,
And through the church’s ancient door
Passed chorister and priest.
And Marien and the little child
Went forward hand in hand
Adown the chancel aisle, and then
At once they made a stand.
Over the altar hung a piece
With holy influence fraught,
A work divine of wondrous skill
By some old painter wrought.
The gracious Saviour breathing love,
Was there like life expressed,
And round his knees the children small
Were thronging to be blessed.
Down dropped the child upon his knees,
And weeping, tenderly
Cried “bless me also, poor and weak,
Or let me go to thee!”
Anon his little head dropped low,
And his white lips ’gan to say,
“Oh kiss me gentle one, for now
Even I am called away--
The blessed mother’s voice I hear,
It calleth me away!”
So died the child;--and Marien laid
His meek arms on his breast,
With the clasped book between his hands:--
Thus God had given him rest!
And Marien, weeping holy tears,
Sate down beside the dead,
And slept that night within the church,
As in a kingly bed.
Scarce from the church had Marien passed,
When came the father there,
As was his wont, though fierce and bad,
To say a morning prayer!
Not seven paces had he gone,
When, heart-struck, he surveyed
Before his feet, that little child
In his dead beauty laid.
At once as by a lightning stroke
His softened soul was torn
With a deep sense of all the wrong
That little child had borne.
And then came back the timid voice
The footstep faint and low,
The many little arts to please,
The look of hopeless woe.
And many a shuddering memory
Of harsh rebuke and blow.
No prayer of self-approving words,
As was his wont, he said,
But humbled, weeping, self-condemned,
He stood before the dead.