: The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry Literature and Art by Various Rossetti William Michael Commentator Rossetti Dante Gabriel Editor - Pre-Raphaelitism

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To Correspondents.

All persons from whom Communications have been received, and who have not been otherwise replied to, are requested to accept the Editor's acknowledgments.

The Child Jesus

"O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow."--

Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, And his wife Mary had an only child, Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb. Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, She knew that God was with her, and she strove Meekly to do the work appointed her; To cherish him with undivided care Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved From her the name of son. And Mary gave Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed To hold as sacred that he said or did; And, unlike other women, never spake His words of innocence again; but all Were humbly treasured in her memory With the first secret of his birth. So strong Grew her affection, as the child increased In wisdom and in stature with his years, That many mothers wondered, saying: "These Our little ones claim in our hearts a place The next to God; but Mary's tenderness Grows almost into reverence for her child. Is he not of herself? I' the temple when Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, As though God only heard her prayer through him. Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know That out of Galilee no prophet comes."

But all their children made the boy their friend.

Three cottages that overlooked the sea Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs, Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red, Layer upon layer built up against the sky. In front a row of sloping meadows lay, Parted by narrow streams, that rose above, Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below Into deep channels widening to the sea.

Within the humblest of these three abodes Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, With many blossoms, on their cottage front; And o'er the gable warmed by the South A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows Which the sun spreads from some old oriel Upon the marble Altar and the gold Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells For ever, so the blossoms and the vine, On Jesus' home climbing above the roof, Traced intricate their windings all about The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed Between the gable-window and the eaves, Where two white turtle doves Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear The ever dying sound of falling waves.

And, sitting by her, covered up his face: Until a cloud, alone between the earth And sun, passed with its shadow over him. Then Jesus for a moment looked above; And a few drops of rain fell on his brow, Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream, Or dim foreboding of some future ill.

Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers, Which in her lap she sorted orderly, As little children do at Easter-time To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise. Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised, Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek And tried with soothing words to comfort him; He from his eyes spoke thanks.

Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop, Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe.

Again there came a day when Mary sat Within the latticed doorway's fretted shade, Working in bright and many colored threads A girdle for her child, who at her feet Lay with his gentle face upon her lap. Both little hands were crossed and tightly clasped Around her knee. On them the gleams of light Which broke through overhanging blossoms warm, And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gems Which deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smoke Ascends before her, like them, dimly seen Behind the stream of white and slanting rays Which came from heaven, as a veil of light, Across the darkened porch, and glanced upon The threshold-stone; and here a moth, just born To new existence, stopped upon her flight, To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread out Broad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot, Advancing its warm glow to where the grass, Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door.

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