Words for the Hour/The Nursery

by Julia Ward Howe

THE NURSERY.

"Come, sing for us, dear Mother,A song of the olden timesOf the merry Christmas carol,Of the happy New Year chimes;Nor sit here, idle-handed,To hang your head and grieve,Beside the blazing hearthstoneThis pleasant Winter's eve."

Then she sang, to please the children,With half-forgetful tongue,Some merry-measured roundelOf the happy days and young;But, pierced with sudden sorrow,The words came faint and slow,Till one, in childish panic,Cried: "Mother, sing not so!"

Then all the little creaturesLooked wondering in her eyes;And the Baby nestled near.er;Startled at their surprise; The voice grew thin and quavered,Low drooped the weary head,Till the breath of song was stifled,And tears burst forth instead.

For misty memories coveredThe children from her ken,And down the bitter riverShe dropped—no mother then;No sister, helpmeet, daughter,Linked to historic years;An agonizing creatureThat looked to God in tears.

But when some sudden turningHad checked her hopeless way,She saw the little facesNo longer glad or gay;And as they gazed, bewilderedBy grief they could not guess,Their sympathetic silenceWas worse than her distress.

Then she tore the fatal vestureOf agony aside;And showed, with mimic gesture, How naughty children cried.—And told of hoary castlesBy giant warders kept,Of deep and breathless forestsWhere trancéd beauties slept;Weaving in rainbow madnessThe cloud upon her brain,Till they forgot her weeping,And she forgot her pain.

'Twere well to pour the soul outIn one convulsive fit,And rend the heart with weeping,It Love were loosed from it.But all the secret sorrowThat underlies our lives,Must wait the true solutionThe great progression gives.

Those griefs so widely gathered,Those deep, abyssmal chords,Broken by wailing musicToo passionate for words,Find gentle reconcilementIn some serener breast,And touch with deeper pathosIts symphonies of rest.