Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS, by FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Trinity bells with their hollow lungs
Last Line: Of the holy marvel of easter day.
Subject(s): Angels; Easter; Holidays; The Resurrection


TRINITY bells with their hollow lungs,
And their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues,
Over the roofs of the city pour
Their Easter music with joyous roar,
Till the soaring notes to the Sun are rolled
As he swings along in his path of gold.

"Dearest Papa," says my boy to me,
As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee,
"Why are these eggs that you see me hold
Colored so finely with blue and gold?
And what is the wonderful bird that lays
Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days?"

Tenderly shine the April skies,
Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes,
And every face in the street is gay, —
Why cloud this youngster's by saying nay?
So I cudgel my brains for the tale he begs,
And tell him this story of Easter eggs: —

You have heard, my boy, of the Man who died.
Crowned with keen thorns and crucified;
And how Joseph the wealthy — whom God reward! —
Cared for the corse of his martyred Lord,
And piously tombed it within the rock,
And closed the gate with a mighty block.

Now, close by the tomb a fair tree grew,
With pendulous leaves and blossoms of blue;
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast
A beautiful singing bird sat on her nest,
Which was bordered with mosses like malachite,
And held four eggs of an ivory white.

Now, when the bird from her dim recess
Beheld the Lord in His burial dress,
And looked on the heavenly face so pale,
And the dear hands pierced with the cruel nail,
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang,
And out of the depth of her sorrow she sang.

All night long till the moon was up
She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup;
A song of sorrow as wild and shrill
As the homeless wind when it roams the hill;
So full of tears, so loud and long,
That the grief of the world seemed turned to song.

But soon there came through the weeping night
A glittering Angel clothed in white;
And he rolled the stone from the tomb away,
Where the Lord of the earth and the heavens lay;
And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom,
And in living lustre came from the tomb.

Now, the bird that sat in the heart of the tree
Beheld this celestial mystery,
And its heart was filled with a sweet delight,
And it poured a song on the throbbing night, —
Notes climbing notes, till higher, higher,
They shot to Heaven like spears of fire.

When the glittering white-robed Angel heard
The sorrowing song of the grieving bird,
And, after, the jubilant pæan of mirth
That hailed Christ risen again on earth,
He said: "Sweet bird, be forever blest,
Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss-wreathed nest!"

And ever, my child, since that blessèd night,
When Death bowed down to the Lord of Light,
The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue,
And burn with red and gold and blue:
Reminding mankind in their simple way
Of the holy marvel of Easter Day.





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