Poems (Cook)/The Child's Offering

by Eliza Cook

 

THE CHILD'S OFFERING.

"The child Samuel ministered unto the Lord."—1 Sam. iii. 1.

A fair young child went wandering out, One glorious day in June;Flirting with bees that were humming about,Kissing red buds with a rival pout, And mocking the cuckoo's tune.

For a moment his tiny hand was lost 'Mid rushes that fringed the stream;Then it came forth, and white lilies were toss'dAfter the golden perch, that cross'd In the flash of the noontide beam.

He loiter'd along in the dusky shade, Where spicy cones were spread!He gather'd them up, till a lamb at playCame close beside, then down he lay, Hugging its innocent head.

A pair of glittering wings went by, And the Child flew after the moth;Till a fluttering nestling caught his eye,And he chased the bird; but he gave no sigh When he saw he had lost them both.

He found himself in a dazzling place, Where Flora had been crown'd;Where perfume, colour, light, and grace,Pure as the flush on his own young face, Were flung over bower and mound.

He stood like an elf in fairy lands, With a wide and wistful stare;As a maiden over her casket stands,'Mid heaps of jewels beneath her hands, Uncertain which to wear.

He went through the burnish'd, rainbow maze, For some trophy to carry away;To the tulip-bed, and acacia-sprays,To the luscious breath and the scarlet blaze, Not knowing where to stay.

At last the Child was seen to pass With one, sweet, opening Rose,And a blade of the white-streak'd Ribbon-grass:—The beautiful things, in the gorgeous mass, That his untaught spirit chose.

He rambled on through another gay hour, With a young heart's revelling mirth;But he still preserved the Grass and the Flower,As though they form'd the richest dower That he could inherit from Earth.

Over the green hill he slowly crept, Guarding the rose from ill;He loll'd on the bank of a meadow and slept,Then he hunted a squirrel, but jealously kept The rose and the ribbon-leaf still.

He stroll'd to the sea-beach, bleak and bare; And climb'd to a jutting spot;And the Child was wooing his idols there,Nursing the Flower and Grass with care; All else in the world forgot.

A dense, dark cloud roll'd over the sky, Like a vast, triumphal car!The Child look'd up as it thicken'd on high,And watch'd its thundering storm-wheels fly Through the blue arch, fast and far.

He knelt with the trophies he held so dear, And his beaming head was bow'd;As he murmur'd, with mingled trust and fear:"I'll twine them together, and leave them here, For the God who made that cloud."

Worshipping Child, thou wert doing then What all below should do;We hear it taught by the Prophet men;We see it traced by the Prophet pen; By the Holy, the Wise, the True.

We must lay down the flowers we bear, Held close in doting pride!We must be ready to willingly spareOn Life's altar-rock, the things most fair— And loved beyond all beside.

Worshipping Child, may the tempest hour Find me with my spirit as bow'd!As thou didst give the Grass and the Flower;May I yield what I love best to the Power Of Him that makes the Cloud.