THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY
133
She spoke with passion after pause—"And were it wisely done,
If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?—
If we whose virtue is so weak, should have a will so strong,—
And stand blind on the rocks, to choose the right path from the wrong?
To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and Heaven,—
A single rose, for a rose-tree, which beareth seven times seven?
A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast
Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!"
Then breaking into tears,—"Dear God," she cried, "and must we see
All blissful things depart from us, or ere we go to Thee?
We cannot guess Thee in the wood, or hear Thee in the wind?
Our cedars must fall round us, ere we see the light behind?
Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;
But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on 'God.'"
If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?—
If we whose virtue is so weak, should have a will so strong,—
And stand blind on the rocks, to choose the right path from the wrong?
To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and Heaven,—
A single rose, for a rose-tree, which beareth seven times seven?
A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast
Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!"
Then breaking into tears,—"Dear God," she cried, "and must we see
All blissful things depart from us, or ere we go to Thee?
We cannot guess Thee in the wood, or hear Thee in the wind?
Our cedars must fall round us, ere we see the light behind?
Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;
But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on 'God.'"
Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused thus—
"The bees will find out other flowers,—but what is left for us?"
But her young brother stayed his sobs, and knelt beside her knee,
—"Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?"
She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek,
So tenderly, so tenderly—she needed not to speak.
"The bees will find out other flowers,—but what is left for us?"
But her young brother stayed his sobs, and knelt beside her knee,
—"Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?"
She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek,
So tenderly, so tenderly—she needed not to speak.
The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more—
The woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour before!
Both perished mute, for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach;—
O reader, breathe (the ballad saith), some sweetness out of each!
The woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour before!
Both perished mute, for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach;—
O reader, breathe (the ballad saith), some sweetness out of each!
