  'They bring me sorrow touched with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule.' Tennyson, In Memoriam. The Royal Birthday dawns again, A stricken world to bless; And sufferers forget their pain, And mourners their distress. Love sings to-day; her eyes so fair With happy tears are wet; She is too humble to despair, Too faithful to forget. Her heart is brave and strong; Her vassal, I would fain repeat Some fragments of her song. A Birthday-song my heart would sing Its rapture to express; My Father's son must be a king, And share His consciousness. Of God's Self-knowledge comes the Word That utters all His Thought; That Word made Flesh by all is heard Who seek as they are sought. Our search an easy thing; He sows good seed, and bids us take The joys of harvesting. Yet must His children do their part, And what He gives accept; No heart can understand His Heart That has not bled and wept. All seasons, bring they bale or bliss, His priceless treasures hold; The Winter's silver all is His, And His the Summer's gold. The Christ within has grown To perfect manhood, and self-will By love is overthrown. Such manhood gained concludes the strife That makes the babe a boy; 'T is thus the seed becomes a life, The life becomes a joy. The eyes that weep are eyes that see, And swift are pilgrim-feet; Ah! hope at length may come to be Than memory more sweet. With children's laughter near, It is not hard to sing and pray, 'T is hard to doubt or fear. Father, my heart to Thee I bring, To Thee my song address; From Winter pain and toil of Spring Grows Summer happiness. |
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