A
Nocturne
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In the little French church at the bend of the river,
When rainy and loud was
the wind in the night,
An altar-lamp burnt to the mighty Grace-giver,
The Holy Child Jesus—the
Light of the Light. It
was hung on a chain from the roof, and was swinging,
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As if the unseemly commotion
to chide,
Like the choir-master’s baton when hushing
the singing,
Or the tongue of the bell
when its tollings subside. It
lit up the poor paper flowers on the altar,
And odd were the shadows
it scattered around |
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On
pulpit and lectern, on choir-seat and psalter,
While the chains threw the
ghost of a cross on the ground. The
people at home in their cabins were sleeping,
The curé was tucked
in his four-posted bed;
While under the willows the river was creeping |
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As if silent with fear of
the wind overhead. But
the little dark church had its own congregation—
The shadows that swayed
on the pews and the floor—
While the rafters that creaked were a choir whose
laudation
Had an organ for base
in the hurricane’s roar. |
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The rusty gilt clock on the flèche was the
preacher,
And scolding and grumpy
his voice was to hear,
As he turned to the storm like some faithful old
teacher
Who prophesies hard things
regardless of fear. [Page 46]
But
the service was marred by the state of the weather,
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For though each in his way
did his part with a will,
The preacher and choir spoke and sang all together,
And the shapes on the benches
would never sit still. Yet
there was the Host, in the midst of the altar,
Where that little red
curtain of damask was hung,— |
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The
God whom King David had praised in the psalter,
And to whom the whole choir
of the ages has sung. But
so big is the heart of our God, the Life-giver,
Than in it life’s
humour and pathos both meet;
So I doubt not that night in the church by the
river, |
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The poor old storm’s
service to Him sounded sweet. [Page 47] |
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