But though it is not Gospel, There is no law to hold The heart from growing better That hears the story told:-- How the little Jewish children Upon a summer day, Went down across the meadows With the Child Christ to play. And in the gold-green valley, Where low the reed-grass lay, They made them mock mud-sparrows Out of the meadow clay. So, when these all were fashioned, And ranged in rows about, "Now," said the little Jesus, "We'll let the birds fly out." Then all the happy children Did call, and coax, and cry-- Each to his own mud-sparrow: "Fly, as I bid you! Fly!" But earthen were the sparrows, And earth they did remain, Though loud the Jewish children Cried out, and cried again. Except the one bird only The little Lord Christ made; The earth that owned Him Master, --His earth heard and obeyed. Softly He leaned and whispered: "Fly up to Heaven! Fly!" And swift, His little sparrow Went soaring to the sky, And silent, all the children Stood, awestruck, looking on, Till, deep into the heavens, The bird of earth had gone. I like to think, for playmate We have the Lord Christ still, And that still above our weakness He works His mighty will, That all our little playthings Of earthen hopes and joys Shall be, by His commandment, Changed into heavenly toys. Our souls are like the sparrows Imprisoned in the clay, Bless Him who came to give them wings Upon a Christmas Day! V. THE SONGS OF SEVENTY YEARS. J. G. W. Master! let stronger lips than these Turn melody to harmony, Poet! mine tremble as they crave A word alone with thee. Thy songs melt on the vibrant air, The wild birds know them, and the wind; The common light hath claim on them, The common heart and mind. And air, and light, and wind, shall be Thy fellow-singers, while they say How seventy years of music stir The common pulse to-day. Hush, sweetest songs! Mine ears are deaf To all of ye save only one. Blind are the eyes that turn the leaf Against the Autumn sun. Oh, blinder once were fading eyes, Close folded now from shine and rain, And duller were the dying ears That heard the chosen strain. Stay, solemn chant! 'T is mine to sing Your notes alone below the breath. 'T is mine to bless the poet who Can bless the hour of death. For once a spirit "sighed for home," A "longed-for light whereby to see," And "wearied," found the way to them, O Christian seer, through thee! Passed--with thy words on paling lips, Passed--with thy courage to depart; Passed--with thy trust within the soul, Thy music in the heart. Oh, calm above our restlessness, And rich beyond our dreaming, yet In heaven, I know, one owes to thee A glad and grateful debt.