# A Little Child's Monument/Azrael

London: C. Kegan Paul & Co., pages 52–56
I was bending o'er my treasured infant, O'er his infernal bed of pain; All my spirit cloven to its foundations, Echoing his cries again, They went crashing through my brain. Till there came a hollow, hollow knocking At my darling's lowly chamber door, And my tortured heart sank fainting in me, For I knew who stood before. Then I beheld a dumb and dreadful Presence, Shrouded in long rigid folds of grey, Never daring to unveil its awful visage Before the blessed day. I, confronting, barred the lowly entrance; Yea, I flung my bleeding soul athwart. I swore, "Thy touch shall ne'er pollute my holy one Till thou tread upon my heart! Swift-souled he is, and pure, and fair, and happy, All his life yet pausing in the bud; He is mine eyes, the pulse of all my being,
Vital warmth, and dancing blood! I have looked along the flowery vistas Of his lovely paradisal spring; I have mused, and seen myself beholding His innocence upon the wing, Flying in the freshly lilied alleys, Blithely singing ever a sweet rhyme. Wilt thou strike him dead before me? wilt thou leave me In blind silence for all time? I shall look for long upon his opening beauty, See the sail fill of his gallant youth, Fair unsheathing of a generous keen spirit Flashing eager for the Truth! He shall defend us, and delight us old and weary, His poor weeping mother there and me! Will it melt thee pondering how long and dreary Without him all our way will be? How we longed and prayed and waited for him! And when, fairer than fond Hope could claim, He arrived among us, how our hearts leapt to him, Blessing, loving, as he came!"
Falling prone, I grovelling entreated, "Dreadful Deity! for once be kind!" But, implacable, It icily swept o'er me A mighty moaning wind; And I saw my baby in Its drear embraces,
Rigid, cold, and silent, smitten dead. Yet while I lay and impotently cursed It, Methought, before It fled, In place of Azrael, the awful angel, When a fold fell from the countenance, Methought I saw, O miracle! the Saviour, With a world's love in His glance! I beheld divinely human eyes of Jesus, Unfathomable seas of sorrowing; I saw, like flame, upon the riven forehead His martyr-crown of King! "Pardon, Lord!" I cried, "Oh, take my darling!" Looking in His face, methought He smiled. Ere they vanished, in the empty chamber kneeling. I yielded Him my child.
And I felt a little babe may on a stranger For a while a fondling joy confer, Yet if he hear the low tone of his mother, He will bound away to her. Were we high and pure enough to be the guardians Of a heavenly soul so pure and high? God, who lent our bird out of His bosom, Recalls him to the sky! If He brought him to us, He can keep him Safer than our foolish feeble care; It is very blind of us to weep him Removed from our sad air,
Moved to where the holy ones are telling In pure white lilies the Lord's love, Where amaranth and asphodel a dwelling Weave around our dove, Full of wisdom, full of love!
Was it very, very lonely, O my darling! Very lonely for a little child, Whom we cherished so, and guarded in his goings, Carried from us to the wild, When thy dear bewildered eyes looked back upon us, And we longed in vain to keep thee, or to follow, Longed for glimpses of thee disappearing In the gloomy, guilty hollow? Ah! if we had seen thee, with companions Coming forth to meet thee with a smile; For there are to whom the beatific vision Hath been granted otherwhile, While they weeping stood deserted on the desert, And love was borne o'er wan waves and away! Yet the Lord of life death is ever near us, If we go, or if we stay. Lo! the same mild moon upon the wanderer Looks, and on the dweller by the hearth; So the mild large Eye of the All-Father Wards all worlds, and earth, Raining a sweet influence of spirits, For no malignant ray can harm the pure:
It was Jesus, and the gentle saints departed, Who came his wound to cure; On their gentle bosom how secure!
If I only knew how I shall behold him, When and where, and in what happy guise! Will he be a child when I enfold him? Or will the form change as he grows more wise? He will ever be a child in his sweet spirit! And I deem the very form will never die; But ah! the soul slides where she holds no image! Reels, nor grasps reality! If I were only sure of his well-being, Sure as I am sure of anguish here, Could I wish him in our foul, infected prison, Away from his pure air?
Ah! Thy merciless, stem mercy hath chastised us, Goading us along the narrow road; Thy bird, who warmed and dazzled us a moment, Hath returned to Thine abode. Lord, when we are purged within the furnace, May we have our little child again? All Thine anguish by the olives in the Garden, All Thy life and death are vain, If Thou yield us not our own again!