The True King

Azure waters lapt in light,
To folds of gleaming, widening blue.
Parted by the prow's swift flight,
Soft simmered as we lightly flew ;
A mile-long lane of foam we left ;
White winging birds the clear air cleft.
A princely boy of Eastern blood,
Swathed all in silk-inwoven gold,
Of royal mien, with joy imbued,
A form of fmely-chiselled mould.
Played upon the deck well-kept.
Watched the flying fish that leapt.
An English dame addressed the child,
"Shall I tell you of the Lord,
We English love?" He sweetly smiled.
And blithely took from her the word
(From some white nurse he may have heard)
" I'll tell you ! He was gentle, mild ;
None see Him, though they try to find ;
Yet He is here ! but like the wind.
Though Jesus Christ a king was born,
Men put on him no real crown,
They made Him wear one all of thorn!
Nay, none more real e'er was known.
Than that by which His brows were torn."
She answered, " Your ancestral gem
Burns low beside that diadem !
The purple robe of Night He wears,
Starred over with the world's wild tears,
Was dyed in Flis own harmless blood,
Whose throne imperial was the rood.
No rival royalty Love fears ;
Who spends Himself for all is king;
He hath you under His wide wing ! "
The large eyes wonder, and grow grave
A moment ; then he runs to play,
To note the glancing of the wave.
Or the red pennon flicker gay.
But in far years, 'mid pomps so brave
Of yon resplendent Indian court,
And dangerous homage dark men brought,
A hallowing on his heart there lay
From that meek lesson which she taught.