MY smallest daughter had wondered how Her dear home came by its name, Cross Brow: Her home 'mid the meres, that loveliest seem, In their autumn trance and their winter dream: Her home at the feet of the mountains high, That have entanglements with the sky. So I told her how, in a time half known And half forgotten, a Cross of Stone, 'Twixt field and fellside, here had stood -- More frail than a certain Cross of Wood; And how sweet souls that fared this way May have halted before it to kneel and pray. It is seen no longer, from dale or hill: 'Tis the Cross of Wood that is lasting still! But here, in a world of pain and loss, Where each must carry his destined cross, A frolicsome child remembers now Why the house she romps in is called Cross Brow, Though little indeed Life's gleeful morn Can know of the Brow that was crowned with thorn. |