Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/147

 While in the end all martyrs find a power To joy in each redeeming martyrdom, When Love's own royal reign hath wholly come.

Thrice happy he who keeps the mournful tryst By some wan wave of weeping with the Christ, Wearing all sombre emblems of the Passion, In deep dim valleys of humiliation, Whose weeds glow with Divine Humanity, Discovering what we are, were, and shall be! For he is driven from all earthly shows To find the Spirit's own divine repose; The Spirit, whom no wons brought to birth, Nor ever-rolling ages doom to dearth! He lightly fondles every lovely thing, As well aware he may not closely cling, For joy alit here hath a wandering wing, Fair evanescent gleaming of the true, Abiding ever tranquil out of view. Yea, these shall feel Love's own rare vintage prest From sin, and sorrow, and the world's unrest; Calvary's midnight, with the cross of shame, The very heart of Love's immortal flame! While agony weighs common mortals down, Our heroes lift, and wear it for a crown: A bow that none save hallowed hearts may bend, A sword that will the weakling wielder rend, Spell for a mighty Mage to conjure with,