The children drop their birds of clay,
And by his side they stand,
To look upon the wondrous dove
He holds within his hand.
And when he bends and softly breathes,
Wide are the wings outspread,
And when he bends and breathes again,
It hovers round his head.
Slowly it rises in the air
Before their eager eyes,
And with a white and steady wing,
Higher and higher flies.
The children all stretch forth their arms,
As if to draw it down:
"Dear Jesus made the little dove From out the clay so brown.
"Canst thou not live with us below,
Thou little dove of clay,
And let us hold thee in our hands,
And feed thee every day?
"The little dove, it hears us not,
But higher still doth fly;
It could not live with us below,
Its home is in the sky."
Mary, who silently saw all,
That mother true and mild,
Folded her hands upon her breast,
And kneeled before her child.
The following stanzas are a translation, or rather adaptation, from a Swedish tale, by ANDERSEN.
LITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen,
Wanders up and down the street,
The snow is on her yellow hair,
The frost is at her feet.
The rows of long dark houses
Without, look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam,
By the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses,
The wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen,
And no one looketh forth.
Within those dark, damp houses
Are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out
The old year's latest night.
The board is spread with plenty,
Where the smiling kindred meet;
But the frost is on the pavement,
And the beggars in the street.
With the little box of matches
She could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle
The wind blows every way.
She clingeth to the railing,
She shivers in the gloom,-
There are parents sitting snugly
By firelight in the room;
And groups of busy children,
Withdrawing just the tips
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain
Against their burning lips,
With grave and earnest faces,
Are whispering each other
Of presents for the new year, made
For father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen,
And no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whisperers
Comes warmly to her cheek;
No little arms are round her,
Ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth,
So much of misery!
Sure they of many blessings
Should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in autumn fling
Their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer
To the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to his little ones,
And bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen
Goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her,
There's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate,
No smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread,
And an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle,
Where two great houses meet,
And she curleth up beneath her,
For warmth, her little feet.
And she looketh on the cold wall,
And on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars
Are bright fires up on high.
She heard a clock strike slowly,
Up in a far church-tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone,
Telling the midnight hour.
Then all the bells together
Their merry music poured;
They were ringing in the feast,
The circumcision of the Lord.
And she thought as she sat lonely,
And listened to the chime,
Of wondrous things that she had loved
To hear in the olden time.
And she remembered her of tales
Her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle-songs she sang,
When summer's twilight fell; —
Of good men and of angels,
And of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger,
When winter was most wild.
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