INCENSE.
On ! the bosom of the morning is an altar to the Lord!
See the incense of its prayer spiring up the early air !
All the moorland hearths are smoking up to Heaven with one accord, And the smell of new-lit peat Rises sweet.
Hush ! the stillness of the darkness to the silence of the light Has been changing, and the peace scarcely suffereth decrease, As the sun above the little darling hills burns into sight, And the world wakes to obey Simple day.
Under every roof a woman tends the hearth-place on her knees,—
Each a priestess of the white dawn of duties after night,— Kindling home's fire ere she passeth on to labour's ministries, And sets out the hallowed Daily bread.
Every chimney is a censer in the chancel of the sun,
Sending up the cloudy spice of its humble sacrifice,
Till the hour grows consecrated with the myrrh of work
begun, While a lark drops down the calm
Previous page
