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 MACMILLAN 
 
 I
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 V 

 
 The Christmas Rose
 
 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 
 
 Other Thoughts in Verse 
 
 By 
 
 HUGH MACMILLAN 
 
 D.D., LL.D., F.R.S.E., Etc. 
 Author of "Bible Teachings in Nature," etc., etc. 
 
 London 
 Macmillan and Co., Limited 
 
 New York : The Macmillan Company 
 I9OI
 
 GI.A3GOW: HRINTHU AT THE UNIVHRSITV PRESS 
 BY ROBERT MACLHHOSB AND CO.
 
 
 Contents 
 
 The Christmas Rose, 
 Preventing Mercies, 
 The Avalanche, . 
 " Father Everest," 
 Orizaba, 
 The Superga, 
 Southern Violets, 
 The Wild Geranium, 
 A Waterfall, 
 Spring, . 
 A Nest in a Heather 
 
 Bush. 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 7 
 
 9 
 II 
 
 17 
 
 19 
 22 
 
 24 
 
 29
 
 The Corn, 
 
 A Corn-field in Glencrge, 
 
 The Last Daisy, . 
 
 A Grave beside a Stream, 
 
 To MY Grandchild, 
 
 The Bridge, . 
 
 The Storax Vial, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 33 
 37 
 39 
 41 
 42 
 43
 
 The Christmas Rose 
 
 Unto the cradle of the Wondrous Child, 
 
 Heaven brought its star, and man his gold and 
 
 myrrh ; 
 But Nature brings each year a living gift 
 To halo the Divine event ; a star 
 Of earth, that once came from the East, and sheds 
 Its silver radiance round our common homes. 
 It comes, like Him whose birth it celebrates. 
 To cheer the winter of the world, and make 
 The very snow to blossom into life. 
 When earth has reached its darkest hour, this gleam 
 Of coming dawn appears — we seem to see 
 The snowdrop's mystic presence on the lawn ; 
 The crocus kindling where its light went out ; 
 The copse grow dense with purple haze of buds ; 
 And willows deck their wands with silken plumes. 
 Long mute, the birds, whene'er they see this sign,
 
 Take heart to twitter ; and the sunbeams pale 
 
 Grow warmer as they shine upon its flowers : 
 
 And where it breathes its subtle fragrance round 
 
 The very air seems conscious of the Spring. 
 
 Last child of the old year, first of the new — 
 
 Ghost of the past, soul of the future rose — 
 
 It links the seasons with its silver clasp, 
 
 And blends our memories and hopes in one. 
 
 In this pale herald of the flowery year, 
 
 Are sketched the types of lily and of rose. 
 
 From roots of ebon darkness, through the mould. 
 
 Spring up the pure white blossoms, one by one ; 
 
 Like human hearts whose roots are dark with woe, 
 
 And yet produce the brightest flowers of heaven. 
 
 Its seeming petals — green leaves glorified — 
 
 Are moon-like made, through the December gloom, 
 
 To light dim insects to their honeyed task, 
 
 And so fulfil the higher ends of life. 
 
 At first they come up pale and blanched with cold. 
 
 But as the days grow long, a warmer hue, 
 
 Like that which deepens in the summer rose. 
 
 Or tips the daisy's frill, creeps over them ; 
 
 As if they blushed in a white flowerless world, 
 
 To find themselves the only bl(>oming things. 
 
 Unchanged they last until the seed is ripe, 
 
 In which the single life dies for the race, 
 
 And then their purpose served they darken down
 
 Into the dusky green of common leaves. 
 Transfiguration strange ! A lowly sign 
 Of Him whose robe and face shone whiter far 
 Than Hermon's crest, while of His death he talked ! 
 That which exalts the flower above its wont, 
 Ennobles everything. The priestly dress 
 Of beauty and of glory clothes each life 
 That yields itself a sacrifice to love.
 
 Preventing Mercies 
 
 The hawthorn hedge that keeps us from intruding, 
 
 Looks very fierce and bare, 
 When, stripped by winter, every branch protruding 
 
 Its thorns that wound and tear. 
 
 But spring-time comes ; and, like the rod that budded. 
 
 Each twig breaks out in green ; 
 And cushions soft of tender leaves are studded. 
 
 Where spines alone were seen. 
 
 And honeysuckle, its bright wreath upbearing, 
 
 The prickly top adorns ; 
 Its golden trumpets victory declaring 
 
 Of blossoms over thorns. 
 
 Nature in this mute parable unfoldeth 
 
 A lesson sweet to me ; 
 God's goodness in reproof my eye beholdeth. 
 
 And His severity. 
 
 There is no grievous chastening but combineth 
 
 Some brightness with the gloom ; 
 Round every thorn in the flesh there twineth 
 
 Some wreath of softening bloom.
 
 The sorrows that to us seem so perplexing, 
 
 Are mercies kindly sent, 
 To guard our wayward souls from sadder vexing, 
 
 And greater ills prevent. 
 
 Like angels stern, they meet us when we wander 
 
 Out of the narrow track, 
 With sword in hand, and yet with voices tender. 
 
 To warn us quickly back. 
 
 We fain would eat the fruit that is forbidden, 
 
 Not heeding what God saith : 
 But by these flaming cherubim we're chidden 
 
 Lest we should pluck our death. 
 
 To save us from the pit no screen of roses 
 
 Would serve for our defence ; 
 The hindrance that completely interposes, 
 
 Stings back with violence. 
 
 At first when smarting from the shock, complaining 
 
 Of wounds that freely bleed, 
 God's hedges of severity us paining. 
 
 May seem severe indeed. 
 
 No tender veil of heavenly verdure brightens 
 
 The branches fierce and bare ; 
 No sun of comfort the dark sky enlightens, 
 
 Or warms the wintry air.
 
 But afterwards God's blessed spring-time cometh, 
 
 And bitter murmurs cease ; 
 The sharp severity that pierced us bloometh, 
 
 And yields the fruits of peace. 
 
 The wreath of life its healing leaves discovers, 
 
 Twined round each wounding stem, 
 And, climbing by the thorns, above them hovers 
 
 Its flowery diadem. 
 
 The last day only, all God's plan revealing, 
 
 Shall teach us what we owe 
 To these preventing mercies^ thus concealing 
 
 Themselves in masks of woe ; 
 
 Shall tell what wrongs they kept us from committing, 
 
 What lust and pride they crossed, 
 What depths of sin they fenced, in which unwitting 
 
 Our souls would have been lost. 
 
 Then, let us sing, our guarded way thus wending, 
 
 Life's hidden snares among. 
 Of mercy and of judgment sweetly blending, — 
 
 Earth's sad, but lovely song.
 
 The Avalanche 
 
 The Alpine peasant in his lonely glen, 
 
 Who sees the sudden lake formed at its head 
 
 Burst all at once its icy barrier, 
 
 And sweep his village from its perilous ledge ; 
 
 Or hears the avalanche roar down the heights, 
 
 A cataract of snow, whose very breath 
 
 The stoutest pine-tree snaps Uke brittle reed. 
 
 Scattering destruction in its awful path, 
 
 And burying home and field in one white grave ; 
 
 His vision bounded by his narrow hills — 
 
 His sense impressed by his own loss alone — 
 
 Imagines that these evils are the work 
 
 Of some dread Power, that loves but to destroy. 
 
 But we who live beneath more spacious skies, 
 
 And take a wider survey of the world, 
 
 See in these evils but the needful links 
 
 In a vast scheme, by which the parched earth 
 
 Is watered and the treasures of the snow, 
 
 For ever melted and renewed, are borne, 
 
 With most beneficent economy, 
 
 Down from their storehouse on the lofty peaks, 
 
 To give prosperity and wealth to realms
 
 That otherwise would have been barren wastes. 
 
 And so the sorrows that overwhelm our lot 
 
 And chill our hearts, which, in the narrow space 
 
 Of their own dark horizon, we are apt 
 
 To view with terror, as the wanton sport 
 
 Of some malicious fate that seeks our hurt ; 
 
 Viewed from a loftier vantage ground of faith, 
 
 With wider outlook of experience, 
 
 Are seen to be but transient incidents 
 
 In a great plan of loving-kindness, meant 
 
 To make our whole life richer and more blest, 
 
 And spread the fruitage of a heavenly love 
 
 O'er deserts useless both to God and man. 
 
 Beyond those hills that our horizon bound. 
 
 And hem us in and darken all our sky, 
 
 Stretch the fair lands which these white realms make 
 
 green, — 
 The watered gardens, whose serener heavens 
 Through distant storms have gained a purer blue. 
 Why should a living man complain, whose life 
 Transcends the limit of all mortal woe, 
 And ranges far beyond, where absolute 
 And everlasting compensations are!
 
 " Father Everest 
 
 ?> 
 
 The highest point of Mount Everest, locally called " Father 
 Everest," the loftiest mountain in the world, when clearly seen 
 against the blue sky, presents a most startling resemblance to an 
 old man ptaying. 
 
 The summit of the Himalayan range 
 Wears the resemblance of an aged man, 
 With head and shoulders bowed as if in prayer. 
 'Tis fitting that the highest point of earth 
 Should thus assume the lowly attitude 
 Of adoration, near Heaven's great white throne. 
 As earth's high-priest clothed in a spotless robe 
 Of snow unmelted since creation's dawn, 
 That awful peak enters within the veil 
 Of braided clouds, into the inmost shrine 
 Of Nature's sanctuary inviolate, 
 Bearing the crimson blood of dying suns 
 Upon its brow, and on its bosom bare, 
 A dazzling breast-plate of snow-jewels, formed 
 From dews and rains that feed the trees and flowers. 
 And all the fair luxuriance below ; 
 Appearing thus before High Heaven, in room 
 Of the great world that clings unto its skirts — 
 
 9
 
 A sacrifice of white and silent death — 
 
 That heaven's rich blessings may descend to earth, 
 
 And burning plains be green with varied life. 
 
 What earth-throes vast, what ages fierce of storm, 
 
 HaVe perfected that mediatorial form ; 
 
 Sculptured its attitude sublime of prayer, 
 
 Against the stillness of the azure air ; 
 
 And calmed it to a patience infinite! 
 
 Youngest of peaks! ^ earth's last consummate work ; 
 
 Raised to that height supreme above the hills 
 
 That stood there with the stars when time began ; 
 
 Above the wreck of seas and shores forgot. 
 
 The oft attempted task to scale the heavens, 
 
 And reach the gods, accomplished in the end, 
 
 Not by defiance, but by humble prayer! 
 
 1 The highest mountains in the world are the most recent, 
 having been produced by geological causes of comparatively late 
 occurrence. 
 
 lO
 
 Orizaba 
 
 There is one spot where man may stand, 
 
 And at a single glance 
 All glories of the sky and land 
 
 Behold in rapture's trance. 
 
 The heavens unroll their mystic scroll 
 
 Of stars above his head ; 
 The Cross and Plough at either pole 
 
 Their rays together shed. 
 
 All climes of earth beneath his feet 
 
 Their varied spectrum show, 
 From glowing hues of tropic heat 
 
 To white of Arctic snow. 
 
 Ranged down the mountain side, his eye 
 
 All zones of life may trace, 
 From lichen on the summit high 
 
 To palm-tree at the base. 
 
 All seasons meet beneath the same 
 
 Triumphal arch of blue ; 
 And all earth's charms combine to frame 
 
 One picture to his view. 
 
 II
 
 Oh ! could we find some central peak, 
 
 High in the world of soul, 
 From whence the broken views we seek 
 
 Might blend in one great whole ; 
 
 Where we above all doubt might soar, 
 
 In air as crystal clear, 
 And every mystery explore, 
 
 And bring all distance near ; 
 
 And focus in one field of light 
 
 Truth's star-beams scattered wide ; 
 
 And both the poles of things unite 
 Harmonious side by side ! 
 
 We stand upon a point so low, 
 
 We see of earth and sky 
 But one small arc ; in part we know ; 
 
 In part we prophesy. 
 
 Along the horizon's narrow rim 
 
 No opening we discern ; 
 And mists of sense arise to dim 
 
 The wisdom that we learn. 
 
 We walk amid the world's vain show, 
 
 To higher glories blind ; 
 The very lights of science throw 
 
 Vague shadows on the mind. 
 
 12
 
 By lines of darkness ^ we unfold 
 
 The plan of worlds afar ; 
 And dimly through a glass ^ behold 
 
 The insect and the star. 
 
 In vain we long for larger views, 
 Which loftier heights impart ; 
 
 The limits of our life refuse 
 The wishes of our heart. 
 
 Whene'er one mystery is revealed, 
 Into the foreground brought, 
 
 Another, by its form concealed, 
 Starts up to baffle thought. 
 
 While here, the wisest sage must live 
 
 By faith and not by sight ; 
 For duty only. Heaven will give 
 
 Enough of guiding light. 
 
 But when at last, from life's dark road, 
 We climb heaven's heights serene, 
 
 All light upon the hill of God 
 In God's light shall be seen. 
 
 All kingdoms of the truth shall there 
 To tearless eyes be shown ; 
 
 And, dwelling in that purer air. 
 We'll know even as we're known. 
 
 ^ Fraunhofer's lines in spectrum-analysis. 
 2 Microscope and telescope.
 
 The Superga 
 
 About five miles down the river Po, in the neighbourhood of 
 Turin, there is an isolated hill about 144.0 feet high, called the 
 Superga. On the summit stands a magnificent dome-shaped 
 church, built by Vittorio Amadeo II. in fulfilment of a vow when 
 the French, in 1706, abandoned the siege of the Sardinian capital. 
 In the subterranean vaults are the sarcophagi containing remains 
 of princes of the house of Savoy. From the grassy terrace in 
 front of the church may be obtained on a clear day one of the 
 grandest views in Europe, embracing the vast green plain of 
 Piedmont, with the Po glittering through it, and bounded on the 
 horizon by the whole range of snowy Alps, from Monte Viso to 
 Monte Rosa, rising straight up like an enormous wall, each peak 
 clear cut like a cameo against the blue sky. 
 
 Before a noble votive church I stood, 
 
 Raised o'er the dead of Savoy's royal blood, 
 
 Crowning the summit of a lonely height ; 
 
 And what a wondrous view burst on my sight ! 
 
 It seemed as if heaven's door were opened wide, 
 
 The very portals of the grave beside, 
 
 On the horizon, from the boundless plain, 
 
 From end to end rose the whole Alpine chain — 
 
 Each peak stood out against the cloudless blue ; 
 
 The more I gazed, the more sublime they grew. 
 
 14
 
 Life rolled its green waves to their feet, and broke 
 
 In spray of pines upon each highest rock ; 
 
 While far above, the calm white snow-fields shone, 
 
 Without a shadow in the noonday sun ; 
 
 From every stain of life's contention free, 
 
 The radiant floor of heaven they seemed to be ; 
 
 By hands angelic swept and garnished, meet 
 
 For the free tread of pure immortal feet. 
 
 So overpowering was the sight, I knelt 
 
 Awestruck upon the grassy sod, and felt 
 
 As if I breathed the intoxicating air 
 
 Of other worlds, raised far above the care 
 
 And turmoil of the common earth ; each sense 
 
 In ecstasy stretched to its utmost tense. 
 
 How dark, by contrast, seemed the vaults beneath 
 
 Where, in the dreadful loneliness of death, 
 
 Cut off from all that made their world, discrowned, 
 
 Slept the great rulers of the realms around ; 
 
 In all the splendour owning now no share. 
 
 Their dust to dust returning unaware ! 
 
 But not in vain does the spectator face 
 
 This great apocalypse in such a place. 
 
 His mind may reason with assurance just. 
 
 Had man been meant to perish in the dust, 
 
 His God a vision so surpassing fair. 
 
 Would not have shown to mock his dark despair. 
 
 These scenes of earth are but the counterparts 
 
 15
 
 Of nobler scenes, to which they lift our hearts ; 
 
 These hoary Alps, whose pomp the horizon fills, 
 
 Are but the shadows of eternal hills. 
 
 The glow of superadded beauty seen 
 
 In every spot, by mortal vision keen, 
 
 Is kindled there, the shadowy path to light, 
 
 That leads us to the Presence Infinite ; 
 
 And be to us, lest we should go astray. 
 
 The symbol of His glory by the way. 
 
 From the cold ashes wasting in the tomb, 
 
 A deathless loveliness shall one day bloom ; 
 
 And eyes long sealed in dust, with rapt surprise, 
 
 Shall wake amid a grander paradise. 
 
 i6
 
 Southern Violets 
 
 From far-off Nice a box of flowers has come ; 
 
 Thrice welcome 'mid the floral dearth at home. 
 
 With quick, impatient hands I lift the lid, 
 
 To see what mystery within is hid ; 
 
 Sweet violets smile up in my face in death, 
 
 And meekly yield their souls in fragrant breath. 
 
 Haunting the room with sense of other years, 
 
 Ere life was saddened with these anxious fears. 
 
 Like deep child-eyes which noonday sleep o'erpowers, 
 
 And see in dreams a fairer world than ours. 
 
 So in these violets' eyes, by death's sleep sealed, 
 
 I seem to see a summer land revealed ; 
 
 Blue cloudless skies for ever shining on, — 
 
 And bluer waters laughing to the sun ; 
 
 Dark smoke of olive-woods on heights serene. 
 
 Which some chance breeze fans into silver sheen ; 
 
 And orange groves, whose laden branches bear 
 
 Both fruit and bloom that sweeten all the air ; 
 
 And high up, on the Alpine peaks sublime. 
 
 An alien vision of a snowy clime, — 
 
 In sight of which the palm uplifts its head, 
 
 In its own radiant zone, without a dread. 
 B 17
 
 'Tis winter here ; but there the roses blow ; 
 
 The sun-bleached rocks with crimson cistus glow ; 
 
 The almond trees upon their barren rods 
 
 Display a miracle of rosy buds ; 
 
 And flames of scarlet windflowers kindle fast, 
 
 In the dim shade by whispering pine-trees cast ; 
 
 And like an evening sky, the myrtle bowers 
 
 Are purple with the mist of violet flowers. 
 
 O ! would that our dear invalid were there, 
 
 Beyond these storms, to breathe the magic air, 
 
 And with each breath draw in a healing balm, 
 
 The wasting fever of her life to calm ! 
 
 'Tis sad to see her thin cheek's hectic red, 
 
 O'er which angelic wings their twilight shed ; 
 
 Her lustrous eyes that larger grow each day, 
 
 And wear a look so wistful, far away. 
 
 As if, upon life's narrow summit raised. 
 
 On higher things than we can see she gazed. 
 
 That wondrous heaven below might break the bond 
 
 That draws her swiftly to the heaven beyond ; 
 
 Might bring into her eyes a homelier smile. 
 
 And we might keep her with us still awhile ! 
 
 i8
 
 The Wild Geranium 
 
 Among the fragrant pine-trees of the South, 
 That crown Mount Boron's rugged ridge at Nice, 
 I found one day a hollow, edged with rocks, 
 And filled with shadows cool, that kept the sun 
 At bay, and quenched the fiery darts he flung. 
 Without, in the fierce-heat, strange broad-leaved 
 
 plants, 
 From parched air and soil, drew lusty growth. 
 Tree-spurges filled their veins with milky sap. 
 Bushes of cistus, with their rose-like blooms, 
 Unfolded from grey buds their petals thin 
 That wavered in the air, and scarce shook out 
 Their filmy folds, before they dropped away. 
 And over all, three graceful palm-trees reared 
 Their moveless crown into the violet sky. 
 And brought into the scene a desert-dream. 
 Each thing that caught my eye was new or strange, 
 And held no memory from my former life. 
 I felt alone ; a stranger in the place. 
 But when I passed into the dim green nook. 
 Where shade and moisture made a northern clime, 
 I found the things that formed my childhood's world : 
 
 19
 
 Fresh ivy laid its cool leaves on the rocks ; 
 
 Shy woodland ferns peeped from the crevices ; 
 
 Soft mosses glistened in the tempered light ; 
 
 And daisies kept upon their closed eyes 
 
 The pearly tears shed when they fell asleep, 
 
 Dreaming of distant fields and dewy lawns. 
 
 AU these dear homely things, by instinct blind, 
 
 Found out each other in this alien spot, 
 
 And crept together in fond patriotism. 
 
 And when my foot fell on a straggling tuft 
 
 Of wild geranium, with its small pink flowers — 
 
 Hiding its poverty, in this retreat, 
 
 From its proud sisters in their splendid haunts — 
 
 A keen, familiar scent rose from its leaves ; 
 
 And in a moment, by a subtle spell. 
 
 My thoughts were wafted to my far-off home ! 
 
 My happy schoolboy days came back ; I saw 
 
 In vision clear a silent wood, through which 
 
 My path led to the little schoolhouse lone, 
 
 Shaded by larches, on whose drooping boughs 
 
 The Spring hung rich green wreaths and crimson 
 
 cones ; 
 And bordered with rank wild geranium-tufts, 
 That left their musky perfume on my clothes. 
 Dear eyes long hid in dust looked into mine 
 With tenderness, and through the vanished years 
 Fond voices called me by my old child-name : 
 
 20
 
 ■TBWSjaeew^iWB 1 jit J iuuLj. ju-Mu juj , . k^j). '.<„* 
 
 And golden summer days, whose cup ran o'er 
 With the first gladness of the youthful heart, 
 Their sweetness poured once more into my soul. 
 I blessed the happy chance that conjured up 
 This lovely vision in a foreign land ; 
 And blessed the weed that, from its bruised leaves, 
 Hard trodden underneath my careless foot, 
 That reck'd not of its lowly presence there, 
 An incense shed, that made its humble shrine 
 A moment seem the very gate of heaven ! 
 
 21
 
 A Waterfall 
 
 Beside a lofty waterfall I've stood, 
 
 Formed by a torrent from a snow-clad height, 
 And gazed far up to where the foaming flood 
 
 Burst from the sky-line on my awe-struck sight. 
 
 So vast its volume, and so fierce its shock. 
 
 No power at first its headlong course might stay ; 
 
 It seemed as if the everlasting rock 
 
 Before its furious onset would give way. 
 
 But as it fell, it lingered in mid-air. 
 
 And melted into lace-like wreaths of mist, 
 
 Decked by the sun with rainbow colours fair. 
 And swayed by passing breezes as they'd list. 
 
 And when at last it reached the dimpled pool, 
 
 Hid in its granite basin far below, 
 Its spray fell softly as the showers that cool 
 
 The sultry languor of the summer glow. 
 
 The aspen leaf scarce quivered to its sound, 
 The blue-bell smiled beneath its benison ; 
 
 And all the verdure of the forest round 
 A fresher greenness from its baptism won. 
 
 22
 
 So have I watched for coming sorrows dread, 
 With heavy heart for many a weary day, 
 
 Foreboding that the torrent overhead 
 
 Would bear me with o'erflowing flood away. 
 
 But when the threatened evil came, I found 
 That God was better than my foolish fears ; 
 
 The furious flood fell gently to the ground, 
 
 And blessed my soul with dew of grateful tears. 
 
 23
 
 Spring 
 
 The fretful April tears are shed ; the dead things ot 
 the past, 
 
 Stirred by the cruel winds of March, are laid to rest 
 at last. 
 
 Old memories nourish new-born hopes, as Autumn's 
 withered leaves 
 
 Supply the warp on which the Spring its rich em- 
 broidery weaves. 
 
 And Nature's grand kaleidoscope discloses to the 
 view 
 
 The broken toys of former joys restored with beauty 
 new. 
 
 Once more has come the balmy May, and by her 
 magic spell 
 
 The shadows dark are charmed away that o'er my 
 spirit fell. 
 
 I hear her low voice, as she lulls the lilies on her 
 breast, 
 
 Or combs the pine-trees' flowing hair upon the moun- 
 tain's crest. 
 
 I know her haunts in wood and wold ; for where 
 
 her footsteps pass, 
 
 24
 
 Springs up in Eden loveliness the radiance of the grass. 
 Each tree she kindles by her torch bursts into leafy 
 
 flames, 
 And, like the sacred desert -bush, God's presence 
 
 there proclaims. 
 The leaves their foliage interlace along the lane's 
 
 arcade, 
 And make a mystery of the place, with mingled light 
 
 and shade. 
 The chestnuts spread their leafy palms in blessing 
 
 on the air, 
 And from their minarets of bloom call all the trees 
 
 to share. 
 With bridal blossoms pure and sweet, the blushing 
 
 orchards glow ; 
 And on the hawthorn hedges lie soft wreaths of 
 
 scented snow. 
 And where the amber clouds dissolve in rainbows 
 
 brief and bright, 
 A world of fair and fragile flowers is born to life and 
 
 light. 
 Unnurtured by the care of man, they spring forth 
 
 from the sod. 
 The free, glad ofi^erings of the earth — the precious 
 
 gifts of God. 
 
 The grey-haired daisies, ever young, transfigure every 
 
 field, 
 
 25
 
 And to the old world-weary heart the joy of child- 
 hood yield. 
 The primroses, with lavish wealth, their golden largess 
 
 spread. 
 And on the dusty wayside banks a mimic sunshine 
 
 shed. 
 The fairy wind-flowers cluster thick beneath the 
 
 sheltering trees, 
 And shine, amid the twilight shades, the forest Pleiades. 
 The wall-flowers on the ruined fane their fiery 
 
 censers swing, 
 And where rich incense once arose, a richer incense 
 
 fling. 
 Hid in their cloistered leaves, the nun-like lilies of 
 
 the vale, 
 In fragrant ministries of love, their meek white lives 
 
 exhale. 
 And dearer, stronger far than all the care-worn heart 
 
 to move, 
 The violets gleam among the moss, like eyes of those 
 
 we love. 
 And speak to every lingering breeze, in voice of 
 
 perfume low, 
 Of things that touch the soul to tears from days of 
 
 long ago. 
 Filled from the full cup of the hills, the free rejoicing 
 
 streams 
 
 26
 
 Are flashing down the long green vales, in showers 
 
 of sunny gleams ; 
 And every little passing wave seems like a laughing 
 
 tongue, 
 Revealing all the secret lore of Nature in its song. 
 From morn to night the air is bright with sheen of 
 
 glancing wings, 
 And thrilled, like voices in a dream, with insect 
 
 murmurings. 
 The lark, a winged rapture, soars and sings at 
 
 heaven's own gate ; 
 The blackbird tunes his merry flute to cheer his 
 
 patient mate. 
 And in the firwood's mystic shrine all day in ecstasy, 
 The thrush in tuneful chorus chants its "Benedicite." 
 While from the uplands far and faint, with spell all 
 
 bosoms own. 
 Unchanged through changing ages comes the cuckoo's 
 
 monotone, 
 God reigneth and the Earth is glad! her large, self- 
 conscious heart, 
 A glowing tide of life and joy pours through each 
 
 quickened part. 
 The very stones Hossanahs cry ; the forests clap 
 
 their hands ; 
 And in the benison of heaven each lifted face 
 
 expands ; 
 
 27
 
 And day, too short for all its bliss, lingers with half- 
 closed eyes. 
 When every sunset cloud has paled, and moon and 
 
 stars arise. 
 Awake and sing, ye in the dust that dwell ; for as 
 
 the dew 
 Of herbs, a blessed dew from heaven our spirits shall 
 
 renew ; 
 And with a quickened pulse, we'll gaze upon the 
 
 bright love-looks 
 That woo us all day long, from trees and flowers 
 
 and murmuring brooks ; 
 And see a beauteous heavenly thought in everything 
 
 around ; 
 And lessons learn of faith and hope from every 
 
 sight and sound. 
 
 28
 
 A Nest in a Heather Bush 
 
 One day in June I found a dainty nest, 
 
 So cunningly hid in a heather bush 
 
 That fringed a wayside rock, no human eye 
 
 Would e'er have seen the secret hidden there, 
 
 Had not the bird betrayed it, flying out. 
 
 'Twixt nest and bush a subde harmony 
 
 Revealed itself, suggesting precious thoughts. 
 
 The nest grew to its round completeness, formed 
 
 By skill unconscious, as the heather sprays 
 
 Grew naturally around its mossy sides. 
 
 Keeping the bright eye of the laughing day 
 
 From peering in with glance too curious. 
 
 And when the crimson bloom burst through the leaves 
 
 Seven tiny eggs, blue as a summer wave, 
 
 Blushed 'neath the warm reflection which it cast. 
 
 Love built the nest — love shaped the heather bloom ; 
 
 And both are tender products of the same 
 
 Mysterious heart that throbs in Nature's breast. 
 
 The nest is but a flower-cup, in whose depth 
 
 The bird-life blossoms ; and the heather flower 
 
 Is but a brighter-hued and tenderer nest. 
 
 In which the plant expands its richest grace. 
 
 29
 
 The mate's sweet song upon the neighbouring tree, 
 The brightened feathers on its bosom soft, 
 The deftly-woven nest and gem-like eggs. 
 The mother's love that quickens them to life, 
 Are but the counterparts in higher form 
 Of hue, and shape, and fragrance of the flower ; 
 Both making up the marriage feast of Spring. 
 The heather-bells make silent music which 
 The inner ear of soul alone can hear ; 
 The birds' sweet song expresses all the joy 
 Of young life budding from the old and sere — 
 The perfect harmony of means and ends 
 In God's great world of kindred natures made. 
 Above the mystery of a higher life 
 Hid in its heart — the seed of future wings 
 And future song — the wayside heather bush, 
 Burning with its own crimson fire of bloom, 
 Reveals the presence of the great " I Am," 
 Who clothes the lilies — feeds the fowls of Heaven, 
 Associates Himself with all His works. 
 Dwells in the bush and in the human heart. 
 And gives expression full in various modes 
 To the same primal element of love ; 
 So that the passer-by, who looks within. 
 And understands the meaning of the sight, 
 Puts off his shoes in reverence, and feels 
 The place whereon he stands is holy ground. 
 
 30
 
 The Corn' 
 
 They tell us that the homely corn that grows, 
 From russet stem and leaf, our daily bread. 
 Was once a lily ; which by various steps 
 Of menial work, became degraded thus. 
 It left its high-born sisters in their robes 
 Of gorgeous idleness to clothe itself 
 In this plain dress for common household use. 
 Its bright-hued petals, nectar-cup, and store 
 Of fragrance sweet, that insect lovers wooed, 
 It sacrificed ; and only wandering winds, 
 That have no sense of beauty or delight 
 Now woo its sober blooms with heedless sighs. 
 But for this noble humbling of itself, 
 God has more highly honoured it, to be 
 The chief support of human beings, made 
 In His own image — rulers of the world. 
 
 ^ The corn along with all the grasses belongs to the second 
 great division of plants — the liliaceous order ; and according to 
 evolutionists is either a lily in its lowest stage of development, or 
 a degraded form of the higher type ; the latter supposition being 
 more probably its true history. Whatever foundation in reality 
 it may have, the idea is a most beautiful and suggestive one. 
 
 31
 
 And now, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, 
 Its being mingles with our nature high ; 
 And through that union, it ascends our throne, 
 And gains in us the wondrous power, by which 
 The lilies wake to consciousness, and know 
 That they are beautiful, and find a speech. 
 In which their worship may go up to heaven. 
 And their wise lessons reach immortal souls, 
 To train them for their glorious destiny. 
 And greater honour still has God bestowed. 
 Choosing it, at the Holy Feast, for type 
 Of His own Son, who laid aside His robes 
 Of glory, worn in the far heavenly home, 
 And girded with the linen towel His loins, 
 That He might be our servant, wash our feet. 
 And feed our souls with food convenient ; 
 Nay, more ! become through the last sacrifice, 
 Stripped not of costly robes, but costlier life — 
 Himself the living bread that nourishes 
 Unto eternal life a dying world. 
 
 32
 
 A Corn-field in Glencroe 
 
 Deep in the emerald cup of circling hills, 
 
 A corn-field lies along the rugged bank 
 
 Of a wild river, that has cut its way 
 
 Through rocky orbit, filled with pastures old 
 
 Lit up with yellow stars of tormentil, 
 
 Where once had laughed the blue eye of a lake. 
 
 Redeemed from Nature's wildness by man's toil, 
 
 The little lonely croft smiles in the waste, 
 
 And speaks of all the tender things of home. 
 
 The poppy kindles not its cross of fire. 
 
 Nor lifts the cornflower its blue banner there, 
 
 Nature's stern struggle with itself to wage. 
 
 The mountains dower with their own floral gifts 
 
 The foster-child they have so gently reared ; 
 
 And twine among its yellow hair their wreaths 
 
 Of purple scabious, snowy euphrasy, 
 
 And silken Alpine lady's mantle rare. 
 
 Day after day I've watched the lean ears fill 
 
 With secret sweetness from the earth and sky, 
 
 And o'er its stem and glume the russet hue 
 
 Of ripeness creeping from the sunsets low. 
 
 Until the field, whose greenness blended once 
 c 33
 
 With the green hills, now stands a thing apart, 
 
 A patch of mimic sunshine prisoned there 
 
 A golden aureole round Nature's brow. 
 
 What sacred memories gather round the plot, 
 
 That take us back to old idyllic days, 
 
 When all men laboured in the harvest field. 
 
 And deemed its joy the typal joy of life! 
 
 The first ripe crop that grew above the grave 
 
 Of the old world, arched by the covenant bow, 
 
 The pledge and surety of all harvests since ; 
 
 The plenteous years that fed the famished ones 
 
 Upon the Nile's green banks ; the touching tale 
 
 Of the fair gleaner in her kinsman's fields, 
 
 Who found love's solace for the stranger's heart ; 
 
 The Sabbath walk among the rustling corn. 
 
 With Him who claimed to be the Sabbath's Lord, 
 
 When His disciples plucked the dusky ears. 
 
 And broke their fast with meat from God's own hand, 
 
 And felt it was a sacrament indeed ; 
 
 And more than all the wondrous miracle. 
 
 Wrought far from cultivated haunts of men, 
 
 "When the slow season's work was done at once. 
 
 And bread that never knew the curse of toil 
 
 Grew swiftly as it passed from hand to hand 
 
 Along the hungry ranks. These memories 
 
 The ages and the generations link. 
 
 And make one family of all mankind 
 
 34
 
 Living in one great home, and fed each day 
 
 From one kind Father's store. This corn-field seems 
 
 A silent gospel. Here I see once more 
 
 The Master's steps beside the conscious corn, 
 
 Making a Sabbath of the common day ; 
 
 I see the hand that works behind the veil. 
 
 Stretched forth anew to multiply the loaves, 
 
 And crown with heavenly glory common things. 
 
 Above, Ben Arthur in the opal air 
 
 Lifts its huge altar to heaven's outer door ; 
 
 Beside me chants its ceaseless hymn of praise 
 
 The pure-lipped river ; while the laden ears 
 
 Store up the manna, like the pot of old 
 
 Within the Hebrew Ark. The sordid world, 
 
 With all its money-changers, care-worn toils. 
 
 Is shut out from this shrine not made with hands. 
 
 From sowing time, when man had done his part, 
 
 To reaping time when man must work again. 
 
 The field has been in the sole charge of God ; 
 
 The farmer slept and woke, and all the time 
 
 The earth brought forth its fruit unaided — how 
 
 Man knoweth not. Beneath the patient heavens, 
 
 In presence of all enemies subdued. 
 
 The storm and drought, the blight of storm and rust, 
 
 God spread a table in this wilderness — 
 
 His annual corn beside the unfailing stream. 
 
 The bread and water that are sure to all. 
 
 35
 
 With thankful hearts shall we not worship here, 
 And feel that man lives not by bread alone, 
 But by each word that cometh from God's mouth, 
 Expressed in Nature's mute symbolic speech, 
 In lofty mountain and in lonely glebe.
 
 The Last Daisy 
 
 Our dear wee Galium, on the river's brink, 
 
 A solitary ox-eye daisy found, 
 
 That lingered in the late September light. 
 
 The last of its fair sisterhood ; with all 
 
 The sadness in its eye of joys o'erpassed ; 
 
 Its golden disk and silver halo dimmed 
 
 By Autumn's breath. Scarce taller than its stem, 
 
 With large round eyes of wonder innocent, 
 
 And almost on a level with the flower, 
 
 The child gazed fondly on the lone earth-star, 
 
 Raying its beauty round it in the grass, 
 
 And saw strange mystic beauty in its face, 
 
 Unknown to older eyes which sin has filmed. 
 
 Do not the angels of these little ones 
 
 Behold always the Father's smiling face 
 
 Bent o'er each thing of beauty He has made .'' 
 
 With childlike glee, subdued by soft regret, 
 
 He plucked the precious prize, and quaintly said, 
 
 "'Tis the last gowan of the happy year !" 
 
 Fair flower ! fair child ! so lovely in their life, 
 
 And not divided in their lovely death ! 
 
 In one short week the little feet were still, 
 
 37
 
 The soul-full eyes closed to all earthly sights, 
 He vanished with the daisies loved so well, 
 And with him all the summer of our heart. 
 We will not murmur ; for, a tenderer hand 
 Than ours has plucked our human daisy here, 
 To plant it in His fadeless fields above, 
 Beside the stream of life. Not his the fate 
 Of the late autumn flower to linger on. 
 With all his loved ones gone, and pine away 
 In the cold feeble light of lonely age. 
 Kind death has saved him all the waste of life, 
 Conserved his beauty at the fairest point. 
 And kept for us our boy in heaven unchanged 
 Through all our changes — an immortal child 
 To love for evermore. 
 
 38
 
 A Grave Beside a Stream 
 
 How strange the union of the stream and grave ! 
 
 Eternal motion and eternal rest ; 
 Earth's billow fixed, beside the transient wave 
 
 Upon the water's breast. 
 
 The summer cloud upon the height distils 
 Each sunny ripple hurrying swiftly past ; 
 
 And man's proud life, like fleeting vapour, fills 
 This wave of earth at last. 
 
 The streamlet, through the churchyard's solemn calm, 
 Sounds like an ancient prophet's voice of faith, 
 
 Chanting beside the grave a glorious psalm 
 Of life in midst of death. 
 
 The living water and the burial mound 
 
 Proclaim in parable, that through death's sleep 
 
 Flows on for aye, tho' none may hear its sound, 
 Life's river, still and deep. 
 
 The grave like Laban's "heap of witness" seems, 
 
 Raised 'twixt the sleeper and the world's alarm, 
 
 O'er which no anxious cares or evil dreams 
 
 May pass to do him harm. 
 
 39
 
 No more he wrestles by the brook of life ; 
 
 The night is past, — the angel stands revealed ; 
 He'now enjoys the blessing wrung from strife, 
 
 And every wound is healed. 
 
 40
 
 To my Grandchild 
 
 JEAN MACMILLAN WORTHINGTON, 
 Born on my own birthday, 17th September. 
 
 My life is waning to its close, 
 And over all its scenes are laid 
 
 Those level rays whose richer hues 
 Show that they speedily must fade. 
 
 But in my daughter's new world home 
 A dewdrop fair of tender light, 
 
 A morning-star of hope has come 
 
 To make my evening shadows bright. 
 
 Our birthdays are the same ; but mine 
 Contracts the too swift sunset hours, 
 
 While hers unfolds, like beams that shine 
 At sunrise on the opening flowers. 
 
 Sweet bud beside my fading leaf! 
 
 Bright crocus in my harvest field ! 
 
 May flower of spring and autumn sheaf 
 
 Blend in thy life their joy to yield. 
 
 41
 
 The Bridge 
 
 As sunlit stream upon its bosom takes 
 
 Th' inverted shadow of a bridge on high ; 
 
 And thus the arch in air and water makes 
 One perfect circle to the gazer's eye : 
 
 So 'tis with life ; the things that do appear 
 Are fleeting shadows on time's passing tide, 
 
 Cast by the sunshine of a higher sphere, 
 
 From viewless things that changelessly abide. 
 
 The real is but the half of life ; it needs 
 
 The ideal to make a perfect whole ; 
 The sphere of sense is incomplete, and pleads 
 
 For closer union with the sphere of soul. 
 
 All things of use are bridges that conduct 
 
 To things of faith, which give them truest worth ; 
 
 And Christ's own parables do us instruct 
 That heaven is but the counterpart of earth. 
 
 42
 
 The Storax Vial 
 
 In the beautiful gardens of La Mortola on the Riviera, there are 
 growing many specimens of the storax tree, which yields a most 
 precious and dellciously fragrant gum, supposed to have formed 
 one of the ingredients of the holy incense of the Jewish Tabernacle. 
 Sir Thomas Hanbury's brother, the famous Pharmacologist, 
 searched in vain for this gum for many years all over Southern 
 France, Asia Minor, and Palestine. Everywhere he found the 
 tree crippled for fuel, and unable to produce its resin. His 
 delight therefore was very great when one day he found a copious 
 supply on a young tree in front of his brother's house at La 
 Mortola. In less than four months afterwards he died. Sir 
 Thomas Hanbury still treasures the storax tears in the small vial 
 in which he placed them, and they seem to lose none of their 
 fragrance with the passing years. As duly as May comes round 
 each year the storax trees in the garden are covered with fragrant 
 white blossoms ; but the remarkable thing is that he has never 
 found on any of them since his brother's death a single tear ! 
 
 In ancient days, among the Roman race, 
 It was a touching ritual to place, 
 Beside the ashes of the cherished dead, 
 A bottle full of tears above them shed. 
 And seal them both together in the tomb. 
 But this small vial in a brother's room, 
 Kept ever sacred, seems more touching still, 
 
 43
 
 Which Nature with her fragrant tears did fill, 
 
 For one who knew her healing herbs and trees, 
 
 The balms and anodynes man's ills that ease ; 
 
 And yet himself died ere life's sad decline, 
 
 Of wounds for which there is no medicine. 
 
 Long had he sought in vain for one sweet tear. 
 
 From trees pruned down for fuel every year, 
 
 That for such cruel treatment kept their woe 
 
 Concealed at heart and made no outward show. 
 
 Great, therefore, was his joy one day to find 
 
 A single tree that from its wounded rind, 
 
 A vegetable Niobe, poured fast 
 
 Its perfumed tears! It seemed as if at last 
 
 Nature her alabaster-box brought there, 
 
 And broke it that she spices might prepare 
 
 In consecration of his burial ; 
 
 For in four months he passed away, with all 
 
 His wealth of learning, and his modest grace. 
 
 That blessed the world. It was a fitting place 
 
 To which to bring such spices for the dead ; 
 
 An ancient Roman cemetery, o'erspread 
 
 With garden-bloom : as fair a paradise 
 
 As ever glowed beneath a poet's eyes. 
 
 Well named " La Mortola," among whose bowers, 
 
 For ages human dust has turned to flowers. 
 
 And thoughts of old-world sorrow, long forgot. 
 
 But give a deeper interest to the spot. 
 
 44
 
 For what are graves but gardens that are sown, 
 
 And gardens graves that into bloom have grown, 
 
 And all graves yet are destined to become 
 
 Gardens more beautiful than man's first home. 
 
 This little vial smells as sweet to-day 
 
 As when first filled before he passed awav ; 
 
 An emblem of the faithful hearts that keep 
 
 His love embalmed within their chambers deep. 
 
 Pure as the snowy blossoms of the tree 
 
 That shed those tears, his life was known to be. 
 
 And like those plants from whose cleft heart-wood 
 
 come 
 The fragrant balsam and the precious gum ; 
 So, through the sufferings of his dying bed — 
 Through bright hopes crushed and heart flowers 
 
 withered — 
 His soul's rare excellence was fully shown. 
 And charms revealed that were before unknown. 
 Well has he earned the toiler's last repose. 
 Where perfectly are cured all human woes. 
 The Rose of Sharon to his grave has lent. 
 By in it lying, its own lasting scent. 
 And death, all memories of him hath made 
 As sweet as leaves of woodruff when they fade. 
 
 45
 
 JVork^ by Hugh JUacmillan 
 
 D.D., LL.D., F.R.S.E., Etc. 
 
 Bible Teachings in Nature. Cr, 8vo. 6s. 
 
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 Roman Mosaics ; or. Studies in Rome and its 
 Neighbourhood. Globe 8vo. 6s. 
 
 The Sabbath of the Fields. Globr 8vo. 6s. 
 The True Vine. Globe 8vo. 6s. 
 Two Worlds are Ours, Globe 8vo. 6s. 
 The Gate Beautiful. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 Gleanings in Holy Fields. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
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