May Carols — A Reader’s Guide

These were the only joys she knew: Yet all but these she counted loss.

Love strong as Death! She lived through thee That mystic life whose every breath From Life's low harpstring amorously Draws out the sweetened name of Death.

Love stronger far than Death or Life! Thy martyrdom was o'er at last Her eyelids drooped; and without strife To Him she loved her spirit passed.

O Mother-Maid! to none save thee Belongs in full a Parent's name; So fruitful thy Virginity, Thy Motherhood so pure from blame!

All other parents, what are they? Thy types. In them thou stood'st rehearsed, (As they in bird, and bud, and spray). Thine Antitype? The Eternal First!

Prime Parent He: and next Him thou! Overshadowed by the Father's Might, Thy "Fiat" was thy bridal vow; Thine offspring He, the "Light of Light."

Her Son Thou wert: her Son Thou art, O Christ! Her substance fed Thy growth:-- She shaped Thee in her virgin heart, Thy Mother and Thy Father both!

Mother of Love! Thy love to Him Cherub and seraph can but guess:-- A mother sees its image dim In her own breathless tenderness.

That infant touch none else could feel Vibrates like light through all her sense: Far off she hears his cry: her zeal With lions fights in his defence.

Unmarked his youth goes by: his hair Still smooths she down, still strokes apart: The first white thread that meets her there Glides, like a dagger, through her heart.

Men praise him: on her matron cheek There dawns once more a maiden red. Of war, of battle-fields they speak: She sees once more his father dead.

In sickness--half in sleep--she hears His foot, ere yet that foot is nigh: Wakes with a smile; and scarcely fears, If he but clasp her hand, to die.

Others, the hours of youth gone by, A mother's hearth and home forsake; And, with the need, the filial tie Relaxes, though it does not break.

But Thou wert born to be a Son. God's Son in heaven, Thy will was this, To pass the chain of Sonship on, And bind in one whatever is.

Thou cam'st the _Son_ of Man to be, That so Thy brethren too might bear Adoptive Sonship, and with Thee Thy Sire's eternal kingdom share.

Transcendently the Son Thou art: In this mysterious bond entwine, As in a single, two-celled heart, Thy natures, human and divine.

_Mater Divinae Gratiae._

"They have no wine." The tender guest Was grieved their feast should lack for aught. He seemed to slight her mute request: Not less the grace she wished He wrought.

O great in Love! O full of Grace! That winds in thee, a river broad, From Christ, with heaven-reflecting face, Gladdening the City of thy God:--

Be this thy gift: that man henceforth No more should creep through life content (Draining the springs impure of earth) With life's material element.

Let sacraments to sense succeed: Let nought be winning, nought be good Which fails of Him to speak, and bleed Once more with His all-cleansing blood!

_Mater Divinae Gratiae._

The gifts a mother showers each day Upon her softly-clamorous brood: The gifts they value but for play,-- The graver gifts of clothes and food,--

Whence come they but from him who sows With harder hand, and reaps, the soil; The merit of his labouring brows, The guerdon of his manly toil?

From Him the Grace: through her it stands Adjusted, meted, and applied; And ever, passing through her hands, Enriched it seems, and beautified.

Love's mirror doubles Love's caress: Love's echo to Love's voice is true:-- Their Sire the children love not less Because they clasp a Mother too.

When April's sudden sunset cold Through boughs half-clothed with watery sheen Bursts on the high, new-cowslipped wold, And bathes a world half gold half green,

Then shakes the illuminated air With din of birds; the vales far down Grow phosphorescent here and there; Forth flash the turrets of the town;

Along the sky thin vapours scud; Bright zephyrs curl the choral main; The wild ebullience of the blood Rings joy-bells in the heart and brain:

Yet in that music discords mix; The unbalanced lights like meteors play; And, tired of splendours that perplex, The dazzled spirit sighs for May.

As children when, with heavy tread, Men sad of face, unseen before, Have borne away their mother dead-- So stand the nations thine no more.

From room to room those children roam, Heart-stricken by the unwonted black: Their house no longer seems their home: They search; yet know not what they lack.

Years pass: Self-Will and Passion strike Their roots more deeply day by day; Old servants weep; and "how unlike" Is all the tender neighbours say.