PART III.

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.