My child is lying on my knees; The signs of heaven she reads: My face is all the heaven she sees, Is all the heaven she needs.
And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, If heaven is in my face-- Behind it, all is tenderness, And truthfulness and grace.
- mean her well so earnestly. Unchanged in changing mood;
- life would go without a sigh To bring her something good.
- also am a child, and I Am ignorant and weak;
- gaze upon the starry sky, And then I must not speak;
For all behind the starry sky, Behind the world so broad, Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie The Infinite of God.
If true to her, though troubled sore, I cannot choose but be; Thou, who art peace for evermore, Art very true to me.
If I am low and sinful, bring More love where need is rife; Thou knowest what an awful thing It is to be a life.
Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap My waywardness about, In doubting safety on the lap Of Love that knows no doubt?
Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, My child upon my knee; She looketh up unto my face, And I look up to thee.
SCENE V.--Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room. LADY GERTRUDE lying on a couch; LILIA seated beside her, with the girl's hand in both hers.
How kind of you to come! And you will stay And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well? I am better since you came. You look so sweet, It brings all summer back into my heart.
I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt No one could nurse you quite so well as I.
How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now; And put your white cool hands upon my head; And let me lie and look in your great eyes: 'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing.
I must not let you talk too much, dear child.
Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson, And must not speak much, will you sing to me? Sing that strange ballad you sang once before; 'Twill keep me quiet.
What was it, child?
Something about a race--Death and a lady--
Oh! I remember. I would rather sing Some other, though.
|No, no, I want that one.|
Its ghost walks up and down inside my head, But won't stand long enough to show itself. You must talk Latin to it--sing it away, Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me.
|Well, I'll sing it.|