The Boy And The Angel

Morning, evening, noon and night,     Praise God!; sang Theocrite.     Then to his poor trade he turned,     Whereby the daily meal was earned.     Hard he laboured, long and well;     Oer his work the boys curls fell:     But ever, at each period,     He stopped and sang, Praise God!     Then back again his curls he threw,     And cheerful turned to work anew.     Said Blaise, the listening monk, Well done;     I doubt not thou art heard, my son:     As well as if thy voice to-day     Were praising God, the Popes great way.     This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome     Praises God from Peters dome.     Said Theocrite, Would God that I     Might praise him, that great way, and die!     Night passed, day shone,     And Theocrite was gone.     With God a day endures alway,     A thousand years are but a day.     God said in heaven, Nor day nor night     Now brings the voice of my delight.     Then Gabriel, like a rainbows birth,     Spread his wings and sank to earth;     Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,     Lived there, and played the craftsman well;     And morning, evening, noon and night,     Praised God in place of Theocrite.     And from a boy, to youth he grew:     The man put off the striplings hue:     The man matured and fell away     Into the season of decay:     And ever oer the trade he bent,     And ever lived on earth content.     (He did Gods will; to him, all one     If on the earth or in the sun.)     God said, A praise is in mine ear;     There is no doubt in it, no fear:     So sing old worlds, and so     New worlds that from my footstool go.     Clearer loves sound other ways:     I miss my little human praise.     Then forth sprang Gabriels wings, off fell     The flesh disguise, remained the cell.     Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,     And paused above Saint Peters dome.     In the tiring-room close by     The great outer gallery,     With his holy vestments dight,     Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:     And all his past career     Came back upon him clear,     Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,     Till on his life the sickness weighed;     And in his cell, when death drew near,     An angel in a dream brought cheer:     And rising from the sickness drear     He grew a priest, and now stood here.     To the East with praise he turned,     And on his sight the angel burned.     I bore thee from thy craftsmans cell,     And set thee here; I did not well.     Vainly I left my angel-sphere,     Vain was thy dream of many a year.     Thy voices praise seemed weak; it dropped,     Creations chorus stopped!     Go back and praise again     The early way, while I remain.     With that weak voice of our disdain,     Take up Creations pausing strain.     Back to the cell and poor employ:     Resume the craftsman and the boy!     Theocrite grew old at home;     A new Pope dwelt in Peters dome.     One vanished as the other died:     They sought God side by side.