Then the boy spake,'Now sweet my mother, why trouble the birds so sore? 105 Forsooth they can ne'er have harmed thee, ah, leave them in peace once more!' And his mother kissed him gently, 'Perchance I have wrought a wrong, Of a truth, the dear God who made them, He gave unto them their song, And I would not that one of his creatures should sorrow because of me.' But the boy looked up in wonder, 'God, Mother? Who may God be?' 110 'My son, He is light beyond all light, brighter than summer's day, And He bare a Man's Face, that we men might look on His Face alway! Art thou ever in need of succour? call on Him in thine hour of ill, And be sure He will fail thee never, but will hear thee, and help thee still. Yet one there is dwelleth in darkness, and I wot men may fear him well, 115 For his home is the house of falsehood, and his kingdom the realm of Hell! Turn thy mind away from him ever, nor waver betwixt the twain, For he who doubteth, his labour shall ever be wrought in vain.' Thus his mother read him the riddle, the myst'ry of day and night, The dread and the doom of darkness, and the glory and grace of light! 120 Then javelin in hand he hastened thro' the forest pathways wild, And the deer sprang up from their thickets, and fled from the dauntless child; But clear-eyed and eager-footed he hastened upon their track, And full oft with a hornèd trophy, at even he hied him back. Little cared he for rain or sunshine, summer's storm or winter's snow, 125 And daily in strength and beauty all men might behold him grow; Till at length no beast so mighty thro' the forest wild did roam, If it fell 'neath his shaft, unaided, on his shoulder he bore it home! It chanced thro' a woodland thicket one morn as he took his way, And brake from o'erhanging bushes full many a leafy spray, 130 That a pathway steep and winding rose sharply his track anear, And the distant beat of horse-hoofs fell strange on his wondering ear. Then the boy grasped his javelin firmly and thought what the sound might be; 'Perchance 'tis the devil cometh! Well, I care not if it be he! Methinks I can still withstand him, be he never so fierce and grim, 135 Of a truth my lady mother she is o'er-much afraid of _him_!