Book I: Innocence

Religion
A SUMMER morn, a church among the trees,
A mullioned hall ancestral, and by these
Low rural homes ; a river gently flows
Through green demesnes; wide, antlered woods half close
Upon a village church among the leaves.
Grey-towered, grove-embowered, calm and cool ;
Thereof a \'ision to my memory cleaves,
How rare and radiant, pure and beautiful !
Before the rustic ritual began
With music, or the priest, white-raimented,
And choir entered, glad surprise there ran
Through me to note, where shadowy arches wed,
A cherub form advancing all alone.
With golden-curled head, unashamed young face.
And air that wakes the passive cold grey stone
To silent benediction on the grace
Of moving innocence, half bold, half shy,
Advancing like a sunbeam from the porch
With timid reverence and a laughing eye.
He glides among the monumental marbles,
Reposing warriors of his ancient line,
Stone feet upon the lion ; old time garbles
Their graven story ! play, war, women, wine,
Church, statecraft held, who want not, nor repine.
He looked athwart dim spaces of the church
To where his gathered folk awaiting sat.
With linked looks of encouragement. Perchance,
In the fair gardened home at hand made late
By some mishappening light circumstance.
Dubiously laughing, he resolved to dare
The long way uncompanioned. The child
Seemed rather born from the pure atmosphere
Of all the prayers and praises undefiled
Heart-offered here through centuries ; so clear
His eyes and colour, his rich locks a mist
Of fountained gold ; the sun loves nestling there ;
Rude congregated men and women blest
Their heavenly visitant ; the chaste cool air
Among grey spaces cherished the fair guest.
Yea, and more watchers than dull eyes behold,
From whom ethereal consecration flows.
Clothed him in armour of enchanted gold,
Molten in Love's fire, mined in hearts of those
Who face the Father. Then low music woke
Within the bosom of the cahn abode;
The hushed wave of rapt adoration broke ;
A boy's clear tones peal forth pure faith in
God.

From a more affluent lot in life he comes,
The darling ; but in many humbler homes
Have I not found a mother, like Madonna,
The cherished burthen of her child upon her,
Or beautiful, or homely, hollow-eyed.
Pale with privation, toil-worn for her pride,
Her joy, the little ones for whom she wears
Out soul and body, shedding but few tears —
Where is the leisure for them? — o'er the pillow
Of some sick infant, unremoving willow.
Bent day and night, how eager to fulfil
The meanest function for one lying ill !
\\Tiile well-loved kindly father loves to carry
His little bare-foot Jane, or crippled Harry ;
And tiny folk will frolic in dim alley
As were it purple hill, or dewy valley ;
Will play their blithe life-drama in a mean,
Poor, walled-in, soiled apology for green.
As were it lovely park, or forest scene.
They to the monkey-crowned street-organ dance
More gay, more fair than all fine folk in
France,
At court superb of their grand monarch met.
To languish through the stately minuet.
Such homes are blessed, even when cruel want
Invades, though shelter, food, and clothes be scant.
I joy to know the children's joy as common
As kindness for them amone men and women.