^■^ "ii. - ... v.*'7;«^ .0^ ... ^^. 'o»*^ A^ cO^.^^i^^'^^o 4 O^ ^ A-^'-c OHO- ,0-' ^<;> ' , > * • n "^^ TTPON us 'Vagabonds -who take ^-^ Our packs and paddles Sunday The good folk look austerely doivn. Though they may smile on Monday. Some call us pagans, others tramps; The truth they ne^er knew — We faithfully attend the Church Of Saint Bartholomeiv. SONGS OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Songs of Saint Bartholomew Sara Hamilton Birchall Alfred Bartlett Boston «, '.' i ^ Copyright, igog By Sara Hamilton Birchall LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two CoDies Received JUN HI moii f LASS ^ AXc iNo. DEDICATION Dear Happy Day: You and I have gone to Saint Bartholo- mew's Church together too often, and shared the same camp-fire and the same blanket too many cold nights for any formal words to pass between us, even on the printed page. So here I will put only the old wish that we have said so often, and meant so sincerely. — Here 's Luck! S. H. B. The Eggshell, June 28th, 1908 SONGS OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Saint Bartholomew's-on-the-Hill JUNE! June on the sunny hills, June Among the fragrant sedges, June Trilling with brooks, tickling the children's feet With her fox-tail grasses, June with her maiden face! Ah, the still day passes So lingeringly in June! Like a thread of golden honey Poured from a silver jar the long hours drip Here in the sun, dreaming amid the fields, Hearing the village church-bell gravely clank, Seeing the black-robed worshippers below 17 SONGS OF Step decorously along the dusty path — How the sweet amber moment-drops fall coaxingly! And in the grass the harebell nods her head To us free pagans, saying, "Hear to me! I call you to my preacher!" The groined roof Of the rough, gnarled and ancient apple-tree Spreads its fret-carving clear against the blue, Here at Saint Bartelmeo's-on-the-Hill; The lark skips blithely through the tangled vetch, Lilting remembered scraps of litanies. And in the orchard-choir boom the bees. Hist! In the dusk of the pines Was it stir of a leaf? Was it flight of a frightened bird? Or is it Syrinx here in the warm wood Stolen from Pan and his revellers? Soft! SoftI Upon you, hider! i8 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Are the old gods dead indeed? Here in the cloistered pines There is no white flash of feet. She is gone — or was not. Yet — that delighted laughter, smothered, soft, Is it only the brook that chuckles and gossips and runs Away with its secrets half-hinted? Syrinx, you rogue! You will frighten the monks from their beads if you frolic and run In their Gothic pine-porches. Have you forgot your playmate vagabond Who chased a will-o'-wisp across the seas And left his luck at home? Why run then, elf? Violets where she fled! Violets in the grass along the brook, Violets starring the path, and entangled deep Among the gray old beech-roots. Violets everywhere Till I fain would tread on air and save their leaves. 19 SONGS OF Violets everywhere, and the warbler's song, "Sweetheart, O sweetheart, O sweetheart!" Ah, in our June What miracle, what dream! And, as the day grows stiller, at the edge Of gathering twilight, and the whispering hosts Of darkness hesitate, and linger close Among the thicket-edges, faint and clear The satyrs call among the leafy reeds, And whistle in the shadows of the pines Until sweet wanton Echo mocks their call, And laughing dryads wave their slender hands Among the silver birches by the spring. Since first some Grecian lad, late lingering Among the sleepy hollows of the field Stood frighted, when Silenus and his horde Trooped by, vine-crowned, or sweet Diana's horn Rung in his startled ears a faronade. The woods have been elf-haunted. In the whins 20 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW The dreamer sees white arms, and goat-foot rogues A-rollick through the dimness; hears the rout Go shouting by among the stately pines; Or by him, sleeping, a slim dryad kneels With wondering eyes, and touches his closed lids With cool and blue-veined fingers; or he wakes To catch a quick glimpse of a little faun Half-frightened and half-curious, in the fern. And at the wood's edge, where the tavern spreads Its rambling wings disordered, June 's in bloom, And all her friends are keeping holiday With pigeon-wing and fiddle. Look you now Where our lost Syrinx makes coquettish eyes Across her cider tankards at our friend Who ripples "Money-Musk" so masterly. SONGS OF Pan, by the gods! But lift those ragged locks, And I will show you his sharp-pointed ears. So Pan would lead a village frolicking, And change his reed pipe for a violin, And hide his goat's feet. Hear him lilting there! So in the twilight on the tavern bench The gray old fiddler coaxes the quick strings And in the dust the children pat their feet. I think I saw within that dusky door Saint Bartel smiling at his children here, Thou, friend, and I, and underneath the elm Our brother yonder, the old fiddling faun. 22 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW The Lamps of St. Bartholomew T3EF0RE the altars of the hill The aspen hangs her shimmering veil, And by the granite boulders still The sweet leaf-incense does not fail, For over pasture hill and dale The slender wood-nuns light anew On every mullein's velvet pale The Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. We woodland folk his rites fulfill With thrush's song and spider's sail; Find holy water in the rill. And shrines along the intervale. Where the good saint, all bronzed and hale, Gives absolution to his few, — And glow beside his altar-rail The Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. 23 And to the wanderer comes a thrill When, tramping on through sun or hail, He sees the mulleins on the sill Of that gray altar where the snail May creep unharmed among the shale. Their gold flame burns against the blue Unwavering in the summer gale — The Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. Good Saint, when soft the hidden quail Calls to wood-vespers in the dew, We pray a blessing on the frail Tall Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. 24. SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Gipsy Song /'^IPSY, gipsy, gipsy girl! ^-^^ April's at the door, April's whistling through the wood- Must I call once more? Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! Keen across the night Hylas flutes among the pools And the road 's moon-white. Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! Must I whistle still, Waiting at your silent door On the ferny hill? Moonlit road and breaking sea, Wet wind from the south! Gipsy, all your lover lacks Is your scarlet mouth! 25 The New Romany ' I ^HE maidens go to church, to church, All coifed and kerchiefed fair, With silken shoes and ruffled gowns. And smoothly-braided hair. But on the hills we make our camp, My gipsy lad and I, With leaping flame and bubbling pot, And wide blue tent o' sky. The chapel has its benches hard, — Good sooth, and what care we? — The maidens look demurely down. Nor let the lads be free. Oh, let the pinching parson drone! I '11 give my love my hand. And we will say the Lovers' Creed Upon the rippled sand. 26 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW And let the dames repent their sins, And keep their souls full well! I '11 give my love my lips to kiss And follow him to hell. Belike the parson knows the road He prophesies we tread — 'Tis Heaven lies thereby, we say. His curse on his own head. Oh, russet gown and sandaled foot, And speech of Roinany! I '11 give the peddler all my silks To sell the dames for me. 'Tis I will wear the gipsy's brown, And eat the gipsy's fare, And make a gipsy tent my hall, Because my love is there. 27 SONGS OF The Gipsy Wedding /^NCE more the gipsy aster ^""^ Her flaunting kerchief waves, Once more along the wood-ways His nuts the squirrel saves; Once more the vagrant passion Stirs heart of man and maid, Once more it is October, Once more the spell is laid. And to Saint Bartel's altar Two come where was but one, With goldenrod and beechleaf Beneath the amber sun; Two come, Saint Bartelmeo, With sunbrowned hand in hand. To pray your blessing, Father, Upon the golden band. 28 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW There in the tall cathedral Of tamarack and pine, The old saint gives the blessing, The sunbrovvned fingers twine. And down the dusky wood-ways The gipsy lad and maid Go hand in hand together Forever unafraid. 29- SONGS OF Saint Martin C"AINTS? Do you want me to choose? ^^ There are saints for every day in the year! Saint Barbara the fair and sad, Saint Some- thing the austere, Saint Cuthbert with his friendly beasts, Saint Dunstan called the Smith, There 's the Saint's calendar they sell — "God's compliments herewith!" The church has lore and lore of them — new saints with every priest; But there is one I like the best — a friendly saint, at least. We careless folk that take our pack about the golden time When every tree's a madrigal, and every leaf 's a rhyme, 30 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW To journey anywhither, along the sunny road, We pause to pray Saint Martin's grace, before we lift our load. A kindly, friendly saint is he, with youthful face embrowned. Who 's travelled many a morning mile with frugal scrip and hound. A lithe young fellow, with his beads worn like a golden chain. Who knows the tint of autumn days, the friendship of the rain. So I will vow Saint Martin not a candle, nor a wreath. But toll of pleasant journeyings along tlie open heath, 31 SONGS OF A memory of cloudless sky, a whift of merry song, A spray of scarlet raspberries that grow up slim and strong; And I wiU build Saint Martin not a tinselled plaster shrine, But just a heap of weathered stones beneath a stately pine, And I will pray Saint Martin not a sain you nor a save, But just a lilting wander-song, a sturdy marching stave, And I will keep Saint Martin's day the chiefest of the year, With thankful heart and open hand, and senile travellers' cheer. 3S SAINT BARTHOLOMEW The Squall ' I ^HE wind came out of the west, Flying! Down went the foam-tipped crest, Dying! Up came the sails to the wind, Sighing! Keen in their ears the storm dinned, Crying! Little white sails on the blue, Watching the swift-graying hue, Steady, each man of your crew! For there 's Death flying! The rain came out of the west, Driving! Blinding the eyes of the best. Striving! Loud hummed the bees of the squall, Hiving! Then at a breath fled the pall, Riving! Little white sails on the gray, Watching the squall pass away. Fought was the good fight today, — Here 's safe arriving! 33 A SONGS OF A Conversation ittle road goes up the hill, And Thistle-down says she, "I 'm off a-gipsying today, Drift up the road with me." "And sure 'tis nice to go," says I, "But 'tis not I will come. For who would feed my cow and cat. And make my wheel to hum? 'Tis here at home that I will bide, And thanks to you," says I, So off went gipsy Thistle-down A-drifting in the sky. 34 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW The Elf-Child T IP and down the apple rows, ^^ Underneath the petals, Rocking on a rosy bud Where the brown bee settles, All along the orchard wall, skipping through the clover, Rollicks little Iris, here and there a merry rover. Now she paints a blossom pink, Now she crimps its edges. Now she tags a butterfly All along the hedges; Tumbling with the foam-belled brook in the sunny weather, Frolicks little Iris with her nodding peacock feather. 35 All the children hunt for her, Up and down the river, Seeking through the orchard-row5> Where the blossoms quiver. On a bunch of meadow-sweet, hid among the roses, Little Iris sleepily both her eyelids closes. 36 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW In January ' I ^HE lake is heavy with ice And long, low waves come in, Slow and reluctant to break With a curling edge of foam: The ragged clouds go by, And the winter world is brown, Brown and empty of singing birds and bees. "Where? where? where?'" The bluejay creaks in the pine, "Where? where? where? Is summer, and love, and song?" For the birds have southward flown. And the hives are sleeping and still. Sleeping and still. But the willows will bloom again. And the dusty bees come home With the tang and the sweet of spring. 37 SONGS OF The Traveller GRAY is the sky and gray is the pasture land, Gray and furtive and still as a questing mouse, Gray, gray, gray, behind and on either hand, With a rift of flame in the west, and a lonely house Tiptoe, astrain on the hill-top to see the day go by Out of the yellow rift, leaving the gray to black, With the red sun dead before his time to die, Buried in gray, with the reil flame at his back. 38 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Black is the road that winds up the jealous hill, Black, with a windy arch of leafless trees. Chill with November mud and empty and still, Even the roadside pools thinly beginning to freeze. Up I climb on its shoulder. There is no one abroad tonight. Orange windows merrily glimmer afar, Firelit windows of home for the farmer and wright. But not for me so much as a watery star. Up, I am up on its shoulder, my heel on its sullen neck. It will be gray beyond, with a widening plain, Gray in the empty dusk, not even a bird to peck At a scanty crumb in the road, too chill to rain. 39 SONGS OF Such Is the chance of travel — come, up with you into the dark! Supper and bed we '11 find at a friendly inn, Supper and bed, and a deep-voiced dog to bark As I knock at the door, and the good dame calls "Come in!" No? For the plain is bare to the rusty edge. Well, I and the moor are old acquaintance still. Even a supperless bed by a wayside hedge Is better than my lord's platter against your will. Sweet is the heather tonight, though the bloom is gone, I will turn on my side, and sleep without dream or pain, I will awake light-hearted under the rose of dawn. And turn me, viol In hand, to the road again. 40 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW September ' I ^HE wind comes up across the hill, the wind goes laughing by. It 's time to put your bonnet on, and let your stitching lie; It 's time to take your basket up, and follow on with me, Along the road and up the hill, strange countries for to see. For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun is sweet as wine. The lake lies blue beneath us, and the leaves are thick and fine; The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds are all a-blow; The geese are flying south before the vanguards of the snow. 41 SONGS OF Come out, come out across the hills! The golden blossoms call, September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and comrades all, But hearken to the ringing cry she sends from hill to hill — The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, the asters all are still. Come out, come out, and leave your seam, and put your spinning by! The sweet September calls us before the flowers die. The shimmering hills are free to us, the hours are golden sweet. Come out, dear love, and find my heart the pathway for your feet! 43 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Twilight in Town ' I ^HE city hurries past with brazen feet, ■*■ A thousand things are at my hand to do; And then the pale dream-children come and pull At my swift-flying hands and busy heart. Frail ravelled shreds and silken strands of song Net my unheeding feet and mist my eyes, Till, mazed among my figures, I look up; See the lamps lighted, and above the smoke, The clear, pale, pitying glory of a star. 43 SONGS OF Sunset Hill ^~\ Youth has gone across the hill ^-^ To find the evening star Along the windy pasture lands, Where the late asters are. He said an hour's light good-bye, And promised merrily That he 'd come back o'er Sunset Hill To dwell again with me. He stood a moment on the crest To flute a lilting strain. Ah, Youth has gone to Fairyland! When will he come again? 44 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Recognition T saw him with familiar, stranger face, ■*- The grave and absent brow, the seeking eyes, That looked too sad for sorrow, gazing out In wistful search across the roaring town As if he saw the mountains' purple line Where he had played and dreamed his golden days. I think he found a slim wood-spirit couched Among the frail white sorrel In the moss, And followed her wan beckoning through the pines To lose his soul in seeking. Still he harks To hear her footsteps In his silent heart Peopled with her remembrance, and he speaks Half-hushed that he may hear, and wistfully Pauses between his words, and looks again To see her moving through the fragrant aisles. 45 The Fool's Song T wander on by dale and down, -■■ I know not where may be the way, Nor if before me lie the town, Or if I passed it yesterday. The Night Men called to left and right, The Shadow Witch sat by the fen, When, mazed with elfish lure and light, I stumbled on the fairy men. I seek — I know not what I seek. I still desire — but have forgot, I spy afar strange chimney-reek. And hope to find — I know not what. Witless I fare by holm and mere, I wander on a weary way. And look beyond my haunting fear In hope once more to see the day. 46 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW The Long Road OULLEN sky and sullen sea, ^ Gull aflit below; Now my love has gone from me, Let him turn and go. Bubbles curding through the piles. Crawling sea before. Nay, I love you not, my lad, We will dream no more. Sullen sky and sullen sea. Treacly, oozing foam; There 's the empty offing, And the long road home. 47 SONGS OF The Return /^PEN sky and open sea, ^^ Wind across the bay; Now my love comes back to me, Shall I say him Nay? Whitecaps breaking at the pier — He comes oversea. From the maids of half the world Turning back to me. Spring and sun and salty wind, Bird and bursting spray; "Sweetheart! sweetheart!" "Omy love. Yea, yea, yea!" 48 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW April-Song "\ ^ TE loitered through the orchard- ^ ' lands, The wind a-blowing free, My lad and I together, And the birds in every tree. 'Twas sweetheart this and sweetheart that. And none so fair as I, But thativas April-year-ago, And ivfiat 's the use to cry? 'Twas none so true and none so sweet, And all the world was rose, And all the apple-trees were out As every lover knows. The bluebirds nesting in the branch Were not a tithe as gay. But that ijoas April-year-ago, And oh, 'tis long till May/ 49 SONGS OF In Cherry Lane TTE loves me, he loves me! And what is that to me? For many a man has loved a lass, As may — forgotten be. He loves me, he loves me! But wherefore should I care? For many a lad in April-time Has found a maiden fair. He loves me, he loves me! I passed him by today; And O, the lad looked after me Without a word to say. He loves me, he loves me — Oh, not a whit care I! I 'II rest awhile in Cherry Lane. I wish he would come by. 50 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Twilight Love Song T TNDER thy lattice I wait, Madonna mia Hearing the evening bells, Ave Maria! Softly thou sayest a prayer, Ave Maria! Would that my name were there, Madonna mia! Worship the Virgin, sweet, Ave Maria! I kneel but at thy feet, Madonna mia! SONGS OF The Dead Campfire XTOVEMBER gales have blown Over its ashes Scarlet and golden leaves — Cold the rain lashes. Tall are the spearmint heads Where my love rested, Brown-cheeked and merry-eyed While the camp jested. One little wren and I Linger, sad-hearted: Out is the fire, My love 's departed. 52 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Hand on My Shoulder — Steady! TTAND on my shoulder— steady ! And a well-known step beside, And the long, tree-shadowed, moonlit road Where a thousand phantoms glide. Hand on my shoulder — steady ! Now and again a word, Now the throaty, sweet, elusive call From hylas-pools faint-heard. Hand on my shoulder— steady ! Wine of the moon-witched spring Scenting the haunted woodland, Flooding the fairy ring ! Gate of the silver birches. House of the rain-wet leaves. Hearth of the glimmering fox-fire Where a housewife dryad weaves ! Night and the road before us, Night and a jewelled sky, — Who touches heaven nearer. Than you, sweetheart, and I ? 53 SONGS OF The Judas-Tree T^ OSE-RED In the morning, ""■^ Bloomed the Judas-tree, Swiftly flowered at dawning, (Heed, O maids, the warning!) But I loved him without fear Of his love to me. All the year I 've waited For another spring, Spring so long belated. Spring with roses sated, ' Underneath an orange-tree Gaily lingering. Cold the spring-time bloweth When Love turns to Death, Slow the gray day goeth, Thick the orchard snoweth Spent white petals ; red alone Judas flourisheth. 54 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW A Departure THE train pulls out across the dusk, The winking tail-lights die, Across the yards the whistles call, "Who goes ? Who stays ? Good-bye !" The sun sets red above the town, The smoke hangs thick and gray, And you must go across the world Before the close of day. And you must go, sweetheart, sweetheart ! The days go trailing by, For you must go, and I must stay — God keep you, dear. Good-bye ! 55 SONGS OF After-Song T' ^HEY say that Love is kind. Perhaps — it may be so. I have but seen his pain, And do not know. I have but bared my heart, And felt his sting ; I have but wept with Love, And cannot sing. The gentleness of Love I cannot find : Love's only kindness is That he is blind. 56 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW The Failures T II TE burnt our youth out gaily, ^ ^ And, faith, we had our fun. We laughed and dreamed and trusted Luck, And now, at last, we 're done. The river is our kinsman. Fettered and foul and blue. With his yearning lap at the arches Where the tug-boats elbow through. One day, when the farce is ended, He'll give us a friendly bed. When the New Year's caught us napping With a gray, dishonoured head. Not yet we '11 claim our lodging, Good cousin, your sheets are damp — The bitter east wind snatches At the flame of the flaring lamp. Not yet. We'll risk our fortune. If the game goes up again, We '11 kiss Marie at the corner, And try your rest-house then. 57 Knowledge Tree Song for ''The Jester'\ by Franx Hah T know a merry Knowledge Tree, -■- Ho-ho! Ho-ho! Where all young lads and maids may see The apples growing rosily, Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! So we look on the fruit o' the tree; Heigho ! Heigho ! And for a sidelong dimple small, Ho-ho! Ho-ho! The lads will risk their all-in-all, So down the knowledge apples fall, Ho-ho! Ho-ho! Sweet is the fruit o' the dainty tree, Heigho! Heigho! 58 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Oh, eager lads and maidens fain, Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! Oh, ashes 'neath the scarlet stain. And oh. the secret learned in vain ! Heigho! Heigho! So we pay for the fruit o' the tree, Heigho! Heigho! ^9 SONGS OF The Spenders A H well, a truce with dreaming! ^ (How is it we are old ?) We 've staked our youth and lost it, The fire's dead and cold. We've played ; our rubber 's over ; The cigarettes are out. We played with dreams for shadows— What was the game about ? One last drink 'round the circle! We vanquished pledge to Fate — Here 's to the Unseen Partners, To Luck that came too late. One more! The night has faded, The stars are pale as pearls — We 've gone the route together — One more pledge to the girls. Out lights! Youth's house deserted Lies eyeless to the day, And spendthrift, old, dishonoured. We wastrels turn away. 60 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW A Prayer to the Virgin 'T'^HE trumpets scream across the field, -■- The horse-hoofs thunder back the call While forth my lord rides to the fight, And I sit spinning here in hall. I hear the war-horns bray, and see The setting sun on splent and spear, But I must stay and light my lamps, And pray Our Lady for my dear. O Mary! I have told my beads. And broidered altar-cloths for thee, But O, to ride beside my lord. And feel the wet wind blowing free! To wake and see the stars by night. To follow o'er the well-fought field. To hold the sword-point at his throat, And bid Red Harold die or yield ! 6i SONGS OF It may be sin, but didst thou know No more than babes within thine arms ? Didst never feel the fever stir Thy sweet, Italian woman-calm ? Nay, sweet, I will not vex thee. See This fair white candle here shall burn In penance. I am still again. And to my maidens — see— I turn. 62 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW All Saints' Day THE fire flickered low and died, The last soft ember fell, And the mother looked at the dawn of day As a lost soul looks at Hell. "The dead walk on All-Hallows Eve- Last year they wailed and sighed, Until I held my little lad So close he woke and cried. ''Last night I knelt in green church-yard And heard him sobbing by Among the gray and hurrying ghosts, But yet I did not die. "The fire is dead this dawn," she said, "The door swings open wide. For I have fled with the shivering spirk. And with the lost souls cried. 63 SONGS OF **I mothered him all yesternight, And held him to my breast, The while I ran with all the ghosts That his dear feet might rest. "One only night of all the year. I blessed the weary road, For O he clung within my breast, So soft and light a load. "Oh how shall I come back ?" she said, "On blessed All Saints' Day ? I 'd rather be an empty ghost Between the dark and gray. "And, Lord, how shall I wait ?" she said, "A year of years in pain, Until I hold my little lad Upon my heart again ?" 64 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW She knelt beside the blackened hearth, And could not weep nor pray, While sweet above the linden trees There dawned the lovely day. 65 SONGS OF A Woman's Spinning "X T /"E spin a golden mantle for our gods, T T -^g women, with our smile and soft- hummed song, While golden-willowed April calls her bees, And May drops rosy blossoms on our wheel, And June, the month of gold, shines on our gold. And the web grows. He comes at early frost. So he will find his robe both warm and fair. So dream; the wheel whirs on, the heavy loom Lights all the dusky chamber with its glow. All summer we have toiled, and counted light Each flying sweep of shuttle, knot of thread That brought our dear task nearer finishing. Yet with the waning days we linger more Above the web we fashioned cunningly 66 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW For his dear sake and Love's, with fingers loath To take the last stitch ere we hear his horse Tramp in the courtyard, and we greet him home. O, singing sweep o' the wind and fall o' the leaves! And blue o' the sky, and joy of life and love His spear-points flash against the southern sky, And up the high-road winds his scarlet train. Again the sun is golden in the west, And eagerly we wait our gift to bring. Ah, foolish heart, and hands that strove in vain! Ye knew not of his fancies or his will ! Ah, dreams, that when we show him timidly He puts aside with laughter or with scorn! And all the wistful longing of our hearts That counts for nothing, since he puts it by, And, understanding not, will say to us That we know naught of him, and bitterest, Is well-pleased that with us it must be so. 67 SONGS OF Poor heart — poor hands — lie folded and be soft That when he bids us, ye be white and smooth To stroke his careless forehead into sleep And full forgetfulness of us, nor dream Of more ; it is forbidden by our lord. 6S SAINT BARTHOLOMEW Mother-Song f^ Mary loved the little Christ, ^^^ Dear son, as I love thee, Although she saw foreshadowing The great and bitter Tree. And Mary prayed above her Babe, Dear son, as I pray now, That she might bear the keenest pain, And keep the hardest vow. O little son, I love thee so ! Have mothers loved before ? Smile, little son, and tell me then, Could she have loved Him more? 69 X107 yfMONG the birches on the hill His holydays are kept Where thrushes flute the anthems^ and Crumb- charity accept. The sermon never ivearies us; We hold the Amen peiu, And pay our peiu-rent to the Church Of Saint Bartholomenu. ^0< jV '•n^. ,-iq< 4.°-n*.. 0* ..'-.. "^o. -ov*^ /^d