Long years ago our Edward lay
    Thus fighting for his breath,
  Yet to such prayers as now we pray
    Thou gavest him back from death. 
  Then o’er the tempest of his pain,
    His cry of perishing thrill,
  Let Thy right arm go forth again,
    Thy saving “Peace! be still!”
  Until to all his strength restored
    Thy Spirit lead Him down,
  In solemn state, Almighty Lord,
    To take from Thee his crown.

VI.  PERSONAL AND VARIOUS

LET THERE BE JOY!

(A Christmas carol from the Scotch Gaelic)

  This is now the blessed morn,
    When was born the Virgin’s Son,
  Who from heights of glorious worth,
    Unto earth His way has won;
  All the heav’ns grow bright to greet Him,
  Forth to meet Him, ev’ry one!

      All hail! let there be joy! 
      All hail! let there be joy!

  Mountains praise, with purple splendour,
    Plains, with tender tints, the morn;
  Shout, ye waves, with prophesying
    Voices crying, “Christ is born! 
  Christ, the Son of heav’n’s High King,
  Therefore sing no more forlorn!”

      All hail! let there be joy! 
      All hail! let there be joy!

A HOLIDAY HYMN

  He, unto whom the Heavenly Father
    Hath in His works Himself revealed,
  Sees with rapt eyes the glory gather
    O’er hill and forest, flood and field.

  He, when the torrent laughs in thunder,
    Larks soar exulting in the blue,
  Thrills with the waterfall’s glad wonder,
    Far up to heaven goes singing too;

  Wanders, a child among the daisies;
    Ponders, a poet, all things fair;
  Wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises,
    Weaves with eve’s passion-flowers his prayer;

  Full sure that He who reared the mountain,
    Made smooth the valley, plumed the height,
  Holds in clear air the lark and fountain—­
    Shall yet uplift him into light.

SUMMER MORNING’S WALK

  ’Tis scarcely four by the village clock,
    The dew is heavy, the air is cool—­
    A mist goes up from the glassy pool,
  Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock: 
    No sound is heard but the magpie’s mock.

  Very low is the sun in the sky,
    It needeth no eagle now to regard him. 
    Is there not one lark left to reward him
  With the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry,
  For sad he seemeth, I know not why.

  Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm
    There glides and gazes a sadder face;
    Spectre Queen of a vanished race—­
  ’Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film,
  And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.

  These are but selfish fancies, I know,
    Framed to solace a secret grief—­
    Look again—­scorning such false relief—­
  Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe—­
  Look again! whence do these fancies flow?