The Window Over the Stable-Door

An Idyl of the Common Life.

From the window over the stable-door,
Hark! how the notes of gladness pour!
Like playful brook, their free, clear flow,—
But why such joy I do not know;
For ’tis the coachman’s humble cot;—
The horses share his lowly lot:—
The same roof shelters beast and man;—
So prudently doth Dives plan!

Who here would look to see enshrin’d
A happy heart, a peaceful mind?
The fact exceeds my fancy’s range,—
Yet ’tis as true as it is strange;—
For hark! how the notes of gladness pour
Through the window over the stable-door!

In such secluded spot, I fear
’T were sacrilege to venture near;—
Half guiltily I close the book,
And turn, unseen, an eager look
To the window over the stable-door,
Whence still those notes of gladness pour.

Ah! now the meaning plain I see
Of that sweet-throated mystery;—
For, rocking softly to and fro,
With fair, fine forehead bending low,
A mother lulls to slumber blest
Her first-born babe upon her breast.
A lovelier sight, through leafy screen,
By faun or fairy ne’er was seen;
And never more melodious word
The sylvan silence ever stirred.

Not hers to see the grace she wears,—
Nor hers to dream the peace she bears,
By such a blessed minstrelsy,
Into the world’s wide misery;—
But all unconsciously each thought
Is into melting music wrought.
She does not hear the song she sings,—
Nor can she know the bliss it brings,
Far, far beyond her babe, to me,—
A life’s space from a mother’s knee!
It tells me of a heart at rest,
A quiet mind, contented, blest,—
A little paradise, shut in
From envy, vanity, and sin.

She meekly shares her husband’s lot,
And sanctifies this humble spot
With trustful, sweet simplicity,
In all her girlhood’s purity,—
With word and look from murmuring free,
And love’s unmeasured ministry.

Hark! how the notes of gladness pour
From the window over the stable door!

And now as soft as vesper bells,
The soul’s deep song more faintly swells.
Is it because, the while she sings,
Like Mary, pondering “these things,”
She thinks of angels far away,
And Him who in a manger lay?—
The Blessed Babe the Virgin press’d
Adoringly to her pure breast?
The Holy Child, forever dear,—
The Son of God, forever near,—
The loving Christ, whose kingdom, sure,
Is in the bosoms of the poor;—
Who passed from out the stable-door
All souls to serve, on sea or shore,
And rule all worlds forevermore.