Imágenes de páginas

But Amud is gentle and Hathor the mother is mild,

And who would descend from the light of the Peaceful Places

To war on a child?

Yet here he lies, with a scarlet pomegranate petal

Blown down on his cheek.

The slow sun sinks to the sand like a shield of some burnished metal,

But he does not speak.

I have called, I have sung, but he neither will hear nor waken;

So lightly, so whitely, he lies in the curve of my arm,

Like a feather let fall from the bird the arrow hath taken,

Who could see him, and harm?

"The swallow flies home to her sleep in the

eaves of the altar,

And the crane to her nest."

So do we sing o'er the mill, and why, ah, why should I falter,

Since he goes to his rest?

Does he play in their flowers as he played among these with his mother?

Do the gods smile downward and love him and give him their care?

Guard him well, O ye gods, till I come; lest the wrath of that Other

Should reach to him there.

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall


As Joseph was a-waukin',
He heard an angel sing,
"This night shall be the birthnight
Of Christ our heavenly King.

"His birth-bed shall be neither
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of paradise,
But in the oxen's stall.

"He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
But in the wooden manger
That lieth in the mould.

"He neither shall be washen

With white wine nor with red,

But with the fair spring water
That on you shall be shed.

"He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But in the fair, white linen
That usen babies all."

As Joseph was a-waukin',
Thus did the angel sing,
And Mary's son at midnight
Was born to be our King.

Then be you glad, good people,
At this time of the year;

And light you up your candles,

For His star it shineth clear.



SAY, did his sisters wonder what could
Joseph see

In a mild, silent little Maid like thee?
And was it awful in that narrow house,
With God for Babe and Spouse?
Nay, like thy simple, female sort, each


Apt to find Him in Husband and in

Nothing to thee came strange in this.
Thy wonder was but wondrous bliss:

Wondrous, for, though

True Virgin lives not but does know,
(Howbeit none ever yet confess'd)
That God lies really in her breast,
Of thine He made His special nest
And so

All mothers worship little feet,

And kiss the very ground they've trod; But, ah, thy little Baby sweet

Who was indeed thy God!

Coventry Patmore


A STRANGER, to His own
He came; and one alone,
Who knew not sin,

His lowliness believed,

And in her soul conceived

To let Him in.

He naked was, and she

Of her humanity

A garment wove :

He hungered; and she gave,

What most His heart did crave,

A Mother's love.

John Banister Tabb


THERE's a song in the air!
There's a star in the sky!
There's a mother's deep prayer

And a baby's low cry!

And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing,

For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

There's a tumult of joy
O'er the wonderful birth,
For the virgin's sweet boy
Is the Lord of the earth.

Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing,

For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

In the light of that star
Lie the ages impearled;
And that song from afar

Has swept over the world.

Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing In the homes of the nations that Jesus is


We rejoice in the light,

And we echo the song

That comes down through the night

From the heavenly throng.

« AnteriorContinuar »