The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 23

SANTA CHRISTINA

Saints are G.o.d's flowers, fragrant souls That His own hand hath planted, Not in some far-off heavenly place, Or solitude enchanted, But here and there and everywhere,-- In lonely field, or crowded town, G.o.d sees a flower when He looks down.

Some wear the lily's stainless white, And some the rose of pa.s.sion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fashion, With silent bloom and soft perfume, Is praising Him who from above Beholds each lifted face of love.

One such I knew,--and had the grace To thank my G.o.d for knowing: The beauty of her quiet life Was like a rose in blowing, So fair and sweet, so all-complete And all unconscious, as a flower, That light and fragrance were her dower.

No convent-garden held this rose, Concealed like secret treasure; No royal terrace guarded her For some sole monarch's pleasure.

She made her shrine, this saint of mine, In a bright home where children played; And there she wrought and there she prayed.

In sunshine, when the days were glad, She had the art of keeping The clearest rays, to give again In days of rain and weeping; Her blessed heart could still impart Some portion of its secret grace, And charity shone in her face.

In joy she grew from year to year; And sorrow made her sweeter; And every comfort, still more kind; And every loss, completer.

Her children came to love her name,-- "Christina,"--'twas a lip's caress; And when they called, they seemed to bless.

No more they call, for she is gone Too far away to hear them; And yet they often breathe her name As if she lingered near them; They cannot reach her with love's speech, But when they say "Christina" now 'Tis like a prayer or like a vow:

A vow to keep her life alive In deeds of pure affection, So that her love shall find in them A daily resurrection; A constant prayer that they may wear Some touch of that supernal light With which she blossoms in G.o.d's sight.

THE BARGAIN

What shall I give for thee, Thou Pearl of greatest price?

For all the treasures I possess Would not suffice.

I give my store of gold; It is but earthly dross: But thou wilt make me rich, beyond All fear of loss.

Mine honours I resign; They are but small at best: Thou like a royal star wilt shine Upon my breast.

My worldly joys I give, The flowers with which I played; Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair, Shall never fade.

Dear Lord, is that enough?

_Nay, not a thousandth part._ Well, then, I have but one thing more: Take Thou my heart.

TO THE CHILD JESUS

I

THE NATIVITY

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, A happy human child, among the homes of men, The age of doubt would pa.s.s,--the vision of Thy face Would silently restore the childhood of the race.

II

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger, Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth, Exiled again from thy rest in the manger, A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth,-- Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary, Wandering far from the land that they love; Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary, Safe to its home in thy presence above.

BITTER-SWEET

Just to give up, and trust All to a Fate unknown, Plodding along life's road in the dust, Bounded by walls of stone; Never to have a heart at peace; Never to see when care will cease; Just to be still when sorrows fall-- This is the bitterest lesson of all.

Just to give up, and rest All on a Love secure, Out of a world that's hard at the best, Looking to heaven as sure; Ever to hope, through cloud and fear, In darkest night, that the dawn is near; Just to wait at the Master's feet-- Surely, now, the bitter is sweet.

HYMN OF JOY

TO THE MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN'S NINTH SYMPHONY

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, G.o.d of glory, Lord of love; Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, Praising Thee their sun above.

Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away; Giver of immortal gladness, Fill us with the light of day!

All Thy works with joy surround Thee, Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays, Stars and angels sing around Thee, Centre of unbroken praise: Field and forest, vale and mountain, Blooming meadow, flashing sea, Chanting bird and flowing fountain, Call us to rejoice in Thee.

Thou art giving and forgiving, Ever blessing, ever blest, Well-spring of the joy of living, Ocean-depth of happy rest!

Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,-- All who live in love are Thine: Teach us how to love each other, Lift us to the Joy Divine.

Mortals join the mighty chorus, Which the morning stars began; Father-love is reigning o'er us, Brother-love binds man to man.

Ever singing march we onward, Victors in the midst of strife; Joyful music lifts us sunward In the triumph song of life.

1908.

SONG OF A PILGRIM-SOUL

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay!

March swiftly on. Yet err not from the way Where all the n.o.bly wise of old have trod,-- The path of faith, made by the sons of G.o.d.

Follow the marks that they have set beside The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy guide: Follow, and honour what the past has gained, And forward still, that more may be attained.

Something to learn, and something to forget: Hold fast the good, and seek the better yet: Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of youth: The Creeds are milestones on the road to Truth.