Thus onward, hand in hand, to parted graves, The sundered doors into one palace home, Through age's thickets, faltering, we will go, If He who leads us, wills it so, Believing in our youth, and in the Past; Within us, tending to the last Love's radiant lamp, which burns in cave or dome; And, like the lamps that ages long have glowed In blessed graves, when once the weary load Of tomb-built years is heaved up and cast, For youth and immortality, away, Will flash abroad in open day, Clear as a star in heaven's blue-vaulted night; Shining, till then, through every wrinkled fold, With the Transfiguration's conquering might; That Youth our faces wondering shall behold, And shall be glad, not fearing to be old.



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

The weary Old Year is dead at last; His corpse 'mid the ruins of Time is cast, Where the mouldering wrecks of lost Thought lie, And the rich-hued blossoms of Passion die To a withering grass that droops o'er his grave, The shadowy Titan's refuge cave. Strange lights from pale moony Memory lie On the weedy columns beneath its eye; And strange is the sound of the ghostlike breeze, In the lingering leaves on the skeleton trees; And strange is the sound of the falling shower, When the clouds of dead pain o'er the spirit lower; Unheard in the home he inhabiteth, The land where all lost things are gathered by Death.

Alone I reclined in the closing year; Voice, nor breathing, nor step was near; And I said in the weariness of my breast: Weary Old Year, thou art going to rest; O weary Old Year, I would I might be One hour alone in thy dying with thee! Would thou wert a spirit, whose low lament Might mix with the sighs from my spirit sent; For I am weary of man and life; Weary of restless unchanging strife; Weary of change that is ever changing; Weary of thought that is ever ranging, Ever falling in efforts vain, Fluttering, upspringing from earth again, Struggling once more through the darkness to wing That hangs o'er the birthplace of everything, And choked yet again in the vapour's breast, Sinking once more to a helpless rest. I am weary of tears that scarce are dry, Ere their founts are filled as the cloud goes by; Weary of feelings where each in the throng Mocks at the rest as they crowd along; Where Pride over all, like a god on high, Sits enshrined in his self-complacency; Where Selfishness crawls, the snake-demon of ill, The least suspected where busiest still; Where all things evil and painful entwine, And all in their hate and their sorrow are mine: O weary Old Year, I would I might be One hour by thy dying, to weep with thee!

Peace, the soul's slumber, was round me shed; The sleep where thought lives, but its pain is dead; And my musings led me, a spirit-band, Through the wide realms of their native land; Till I stood by the couch of the mighty dying, A lonely shore in the midnight lying. He lay as if he had laid him to sleep, And the stars above him their watch did keep; And the mournful wind with the dreamy sigh, The homeless wanderer of the sky, Was the only attendant whose gentle breath Soothed him yet on the couch of death; And the dying waves of the heedless sea Fell at his feet most listlessly.

But he lay in peace, with his solemn eye Looking far through the mists of futurity. A smile gleamed over the death-dew that lay On his withered cheek as life ebbed away. A darkness lay on his forehead vast; But the light of expectancy o'er it was cast,— A light that shone from the coming day, Travelling unseen to the East away. In his cloudy robes that lay shadowing wide, I stretched myself motionless by his side; And his eyes with their calm, unimpassioned power, Soothing my heart like an evening shower, Led in a spectral, far-billowing train, The hours of the Past through my spirit again.

There were fears of evil whose stony eyes Froze joy in its gushing melodies. Some floated afar on thy tranquil wave, And the heart looked up from its search for a grave; While others as guests to the bosom came, And left its wild children more sorrow, less shame; For the death-look parts from their chilling brow, And they bless the heads that before them bow; And floating away in the far-off gloom. Thankfulness follows them to their tomb. There were Hopes that found not a place to rest Their foot 'mid the rush of all-ocean's breast; And home to the sickening heart flew back, But changed into sorrows upon their track; And through the moan of the darkening sea Bearing no leaf from the olive-tree. There were joys that looked forth with their maiden eyes, And smiled, and were gone, with a sad surprise; And the Love of the Earthly, whose beauteous form Beckoned me on through sunshine and storm; But when the bounding heart sprang high, Meeting her smile with a speechless sigh, The arms sunk home with a painful start, Clasping a vacancy to the heart.

And the voice of the dying I seem to hear But whether his breathing is in mine ear, Or the sounds of the breaking billows roll The lingering accents upon my soul, I know not; but thus they seem to bear Reproof to my soul for its faint despair:— Blame not life, it is scarce begun; Blame not mankind, thyself art one. And change is holy, oh! blame it never; Thy soul shall live by its changing ever; Not the bubbling change of a stagnant pool, But the change of a river, flowing and full; Where all that is noble and good will grow Mightier still as the full tides flow; Till it joins the hidden, the boundless sea, Rolling through depths of Eternity. Blame not thy thought that it cannot reach That which the Infinite must teach; Bless thy God that the Word came nigh To guide thee home to thy native sky, Where all things are homely and glorious too, And the children are wondering, and glad, and true.

And he pointed away to an Eastern star, That gleamed through his robes o'er the ocean afar; And I knew that a star had looked o'er the rim Of my world that lay all dreary and dim; And was slowly dissolving the darkness deep Which, like evil nurse, had soothed me to sleep; And rising higher, and shining clearer, Would draw the day-spring ever nearer, Till the sunshine of God burst full on the morn, And every hill and valley would start With the joy of light and new gratitude born To Him who had led me home to His heart; And all things that lived in my world within With the gladness of tears to His feet come in; And the false Self be banished with fiends to dwell In the gloomiest haunts of his native hell; And Pride, that ruled like a god above, Be trod 'neath the feet of triumphant Love.

And again he pointed across the sea, And another vision arose in me: And I knew I walked an ocean of fear, Yet of safety too, for the Master was near; And every wave of sorrow or dread, O'er which strong faith should upraise my head, Would show from the height of its troubled crest Still nearer and nearer the Land of Rest. And when the storm-spray on the wind should arise, And with tears unbidden should blind mine eyes, And hide from my vision the Home of Love, I knew I must look to the star above, And the mists of Passion would quickly flee, And the storm would faint to serenity.

And again it seemed as if words found scope, The sorrowing words of a farewell Hope: "I will meet thee again in that deathless land, Whenever thy foot shall imprint the strand; And the loveliest things that have here been mine, Shall there in eternal beauty shine; For there I shall live and never die, Part of a glorious Eternity; For the death of Time is To be forgot, And I go where oblivion entereth not."

He was dead. He had gone to the rest of his race, With a sad smile frozen upon his face. Deadness clouded his eyes. And his death-bell rung, And my sorrowing thoughts his low requiem sung; And with trembling steps his worn body cast In the wide charnel-house of the dreary Past. Thus met the noble Old Year his end: Rest him in peace, for he was my friend.

As my thoughts returned from their wandering, A voice in my spirit was lingering; And its sounds were like Spring's first breeze's hum, When the oak-leaves fall, and the young leaves come:

Time dieth ever, is ever born: On the footsteps of night so treadeth the morn; Shadow and brightness, death and birth, Chasing each other o'er the round earth. But the spirit of Time from his tomb is springing, The dust of decay from his pinions flinging; Ever renewing his glorious youth, Scattering around him the dew of Truth. Oh, let it raise in the desert heart Fountains and flowers that shall never depart! This spirit will fill us with thought sublime; For the End of God is the spirit of Time.



A SONG IN A DREAM.

I dreamed of a song, I heard it sung; In the ear that sleeps not its music rung. And the tones were upheld by harmonies deep, Where the spirit floated; yea, soared, on their sweep With each wild unearthly word and tone, Upward, it knew not whither bound, In a calm delirium of mystic sound— Up, where the Genius of Thought alone Loveth in silence to drink his fill Of dews that from unknown clouds distil. A woman's voice the deep echoes awoke, In the caverns and solitudes of my soul; But such a voice had never broke Through the sea of sounds that about us roll, Choking the ear in the daylight strife. There was sorrow and triumph, and death and life In each chord-note of that prophet-song, Blended in one harmonious throng: Such a chant, ere my voice has fled from death, Be it mine to mould of the parting breath.



A THANKSGIVING.

I Thank Thee, boundless Giver, That the thoughts Thou givest flow In sounds that like a river All through the darkness go. And though few should swell the pleasure, By sharing this my wine, My heart will clasp its treasure, This secret gift of Thine.

My heart the joy inherits, And will oft be sung to rest; And some wandering hoping spirits May listen and be blest. For the sound may break the hours In a dark and gloomy mood, As the wind breaks up the bowers Of the brooding sunless wood.

For every sound of gladness Is a prophet-wind that tells Of a summer without sadness, And a love without farewells; And a heart that hath no ailing, And an eye that is not dim, And a faith that without failing Shall be complete in Him.

And when my heart is mourning, The songs it lately gave, Back to their fount returning, Make sweet the bitter wave; And forth a new stream floweth, In sunshine winding fair; And through the dark wood goeth Glad laughter on the air.

For the heart of man that waketh, Yet hath not ceased to dream, Is the only fount that maketh The sweet and bitter stream. But the sweet will still be flowing When the bitter stream is dry, And glad music only going On the breezes of the sky.

I thank Thee, boundless Giver, That the thoughts Thou givest flow In sounds that like a river All through the darkness go. And though few should swell the pleasure By sharing this my wine, My heart will clasp its treasure, This secret gift of Thine.



THE GOSPEL WOMEN.



I.

THE MOTHER MARY.

1.

Mary, to thee the heart was given For infant hand to hold, Thus clasping, an eternal heaven, The great earth in its fold.

He seized the world with tender might, By making thee his own; Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height Was to thyself unknown.

He came, all helpless, to thy power, For warmth, and love, and birth; In thy embraces, every hour, He grew into the earth.

And thine the grief, O mother high, Which all thy sisters share, Who keep the gate betwixt the sky And this our lower air;

And unshared sorrows, gathering slow; New thoughts within thy heart, Which through thee like a sword will go, And make thee mourn apart.

For, if a woman bore a son That was of angel brood, Who lifted wings ere day was done, And soared from where he stood;

Strange grief would fill each mother-moan, Wild longing, dim, and sore: "My child! my child! he is my own, And yet is mine no more!"

And thou, O Mary, years on years, From child-birth to the cross, Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, Keen sense of love and loss.

His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; His childish tenderness Had deeper springs than act or speech To eye or ear express.

Strange pangs await thee, mother mild! A sorer travail-pain, Before the spirit of thy child Is born in thee again.

And thou wilt still forbode and dread, And loss be still thy fear, Till form be gone, and, in its stead, The very self appear.

For, when thy Son hath reached his goal, His own obedient choice, Him thou wilt know within thy soul, And in his joy rejoice.

2.

Ah, there He stands! With wondering face Old men surround the boy; The solemn looks, the awful place, Restrain the mother's joy.

In sweet reproach her joy is hid; Her trembling voice is low, Less like the chiding than the chid: "How couldst Thou leave us so?"

Ah, mother! will thy heart mistake, Depressed by rising fear, The answering words that gently break The silence of thine ear?

"Why sought ye me? Did ye not know My father's work I do?" Mother, if He that work forego, Not long He cares for you.

"Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear! The gulf already opes, That soon will keep thee to thy fear, And part thee from thy hopes.

A greater work He hath to do, Than they can understand; And therefore mourn the loving few, With tears throughout the land.

3.

The Lord of life beside them rests; They quaff the merry wine; They do not know, those wedding guests, The present power divine.

Believe, on such a group He smiled, Though He might sigh the while; Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child Was born without a smile.

He saw the pitchers high upturned, The last red drops to pour; His mother's cheek with triumph burned, And expectation wore.

He knew the prayer her bosom housed, He read it in her eyes. Her hopes in Him sad thoughts have roused, Before her words arise.

"They have no wine," the mother said, And ceased while scarce begun; Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, Show what Thou art, my Son!"

A vision rose before his eyes, The cross, the early tomb, The people's rage, the darkened skies, His unavoided doom.

"Ah, woman-heart! what end is set Common to thee and me? My hour of honour is not yet,— 'Twill come too soon for thee."

And yet his eyes so sweetly shined, His voice so gentle grew, The mother knew the answer kind— "Whate'er He sayeth, do."

The little feast more joyous grew, Fast flowed the grapes divine; Though then, as now, not many knew Who made the water wine.

4.

"He is beside himself," they said; His days, so lonely spent, Him from the well-known path have led In which our fathers went."

"Thy mother seeks thee." Cried aloud, The message finds its way; He stands within, amidst a crowd, She in the open day.

A flush of light o'erspreads his face, And pours from forth his eyes; He lifts that head, the home of grace, Looks round Him, and replies.

"My mother? brothers? who are they?" Hearest thou, Mary mild? This is a sword that well may slay— Disowned by thy child!

Not so. But, brothers, sisters, hear! What says our human Lord? O mother, did it wound thy ear? We thank Him for the word.

"Who are my friends?" Oh! hear Him say, And spread it far and broad. "My mother, sisters, brothers, they Who keep the word of God."

My brother! Lord of life and me, I am inspired with this! Ah! brother, sister, this must be Enough for all amiss.

Yet think not, mother, He denies, Or would thy claim destroy; But glad love lifts more loving eyes To Him who made the joy.

Oh! nearer Him is nearer thee: With his obedience bow, And thou wilt rise with heart set free, Yea, twice his mother now.

5.

The best of life crowds round its close, To light it from the door; When woman's art no further goes, She weeps, and loves the more.

Howe'er she doubted, in his life, And feared his mission's loss, The mother shares the awful strife, And stands beside the cross.

Mother, the hour of tears is past; The sword hath reached thy soul; No veil of swoon is round thee cast, No darkness hides the whole.

Those are the limbs which thou didst bear; Thy arms, they were his rest; And now those limbs the irons tear, And hold Him from thy breast.

He speaks. With torturing joy the sounds Drop burning on thine ear; The mother-heart, though bleeding, bounds Her dying Son to hear.

Ah! well He knew that not alone The cross of pain could tell; That griefs as bitter as his own Around it heave and swell.

And well He knew what best repose Would bring a true relief: He gave, each to the other, those Who shared a common grief.

"Mother, behold thy son. O friend, My mother take for thine." "Ah, son, he loved thee to the end." "Mother, what honour mine!"

Another son instead, He gave, Her crying heart to still. For him, He went down to the grave, Doing his Father's will.



II.

THE WOMAN THAT CRIED IN THE CROWD.

She says within: "It is a man, A man of mother born; She is a woman—I am one, Alive this holy morn."

Filled with his words that flow in light, Her heart will break or cry: A woman's cry bursts forth in might Of loving agony.

"Blessed the womb, Thee, Lord, that bore! The breast where Thou hast fed!" Storm-like those words the silence tore, Though words the silence bred.

He ceases, listens to the cry, And knows from whence it springs; A woman's heart that glad would die For this her best of things.

Yet there is better than the birth Of such a mighty son; Better than know, of all the earth Thyself the chosen one.

"Yea, rather, blessed they that hear, And keep the word of God." The voice was gentle, not severe: No answer came abroad.



III.

THE MOTHER OP ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN.

Ah mother! for thy children bold, But doubtful of thy quest, Thou begg'st a boon ere it be told, Avoiding wisdom's test.

Though love is strong to bring thee nigh, Ambition makes thee doubt; Ambition dulls the prophet-eye; It casts the unseen out.

Not that in thousands he be one, Uplift in lonely state— Seek great things, mother, for thy son, Because the things are great.

For ill to thee thy prayers avail, If granted to thy will; Ill which thy ignorance would hail, Or good thou countedst ill.

Them thou wouldst see in purple pride, Worshipped on every hand; Their honours mighty but to hide The evil of the land.

Or wouldst thou thank for granted quest, Counting thy prayer well heard, If of the three on Calvary's crest They shared the first and third?

Let them, O mother, safety win; They are not safe with thee; Thy love would shut their glory in; His love would set it free.

God keeps his thrones for men of strength, Men that are fit to rule; Who, in obedience ripe at length, Have passed through all his school.

Yet higher than thy love can dare, His love thy sons would set: They who his cup and baptism share May share his kingdom yet.



IV.

THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN.

"Bestow her prayer, and let her go; She crieth after us." Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; Help not a woman thus.

Their pride, by condescension fed, He speaks with truer tongue: "It is not meet the children's bread Should to the dogs be flung."

She, too, shall share the hurt of good, Her spirit, too, be rent, That these proud men their evil mood May see, and so repent.

And that the hidden faith in her May burst in soaring flame, From childhood truer, holier, If birthright not the same.

If for herself had been her prayer, She might have turned away; But oh! the woman-child she bare Was now the demon's prey.

She crieth still; gainsays no words Contempt can hurt withal; The daughter's woe her strength affords, And woe nor strength is small.

Ill names, of proud religion born, She'll wear the worst that comes; Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, To share the healing crumbs.

And yet the tone of words so sore The words themselves did rue; His face a gentle sadness wore, As if He suffered too.

Mother, thy agony of care He justifies from ill; Thou wilt not yield?—He grants the prayer In fullness of thy will.

Ah Lord! if I my hope of weal Upon thy goodness built, Thy will perchance my will would seal, And say: Be it as thou wilt.



V.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

Away from living man's abode The tides of sorrow sweep, Bearing a dead man on the road To where the weary sleep.

And down the hill, in sunny state, Glad footsteps troop along; A noble figure walks sedate, The centre of the throng.

The streams flow onward, onward flow, Touch, waver, and are still; And through the parted crowds doth go, Before the prayer, the will.

"Weep not, O mother! Young man, rise!" The bearers hear and stay; Up starts the form; wide flash the eyes; With gladness blends dismay.

The lips would speak, as if they caught Some converse sudden broke, When echoing words the dead man sought, And Hades' silence woke.

The lips would speak. The eyes' wild stare Gives place to ordered sight; The low words die upon the air— The soul is dumb with light.

He brings no news; he has forgot; Or saw with vision weak: Thou seest all our unseen lot, And yet thou dost not speak.

It may be as a mother keeps A secret gift in store; Which if he knew, the child that sleeps, That night would sleep no more.

Oh, thine are all the hills of gold! Yet gold Thou gavest none; Such gifts would leave thy love untold— The widow clasps her son.

No word of hers hath left a trace Of uttered joy or grief; Her tears alone have found a place Upon the holy leaf.

Oh, speechless sure the widow's pain, To lose her only boy! Speechless the flowing tides again Of new-made mother's joy!

Life is triumphant. Joined in one The streams flow to the gate; Death is turned backward to the sun, And Life is hailed our Fate.



VI.

THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND.

For eighteen years, O patient soul, Thine eyes have sought thy grave; Thou seest not thy other goal, Nor who is nigh to save.

Thou nearest gentle words that wake Thy long-forgotten strength; Thou feelest tender hands that break The iron bonds at length.

Thou knowest life rush swift along Thy form bent sadly low; And up, amidst the wondering throng Thou risest firm and slow,

And seest him. Erect once more In human right divine, Joyous thou bendest yet before The form that lifted thine.

O Saviour, Thou, long ages gone, Didst lift her joyous head: Now, many hearts are moaning on, And bending towards the dead.

They see not, know not Thou art nigh: One day thy word will come; Will lift the forward-beaming eye, And strike the sorrow dumb.

Thy hand wipes off the stains of time Upon the withered face; Thy old men rise in manhood's prime Of dignity and grace.

Thy women dawn like summer days Old winters from among; Their eyes are filled with youthful rays, The voice revives in song.

All ills of life will melt away Like cureless dreams of woe, When with the dawning of the day Themselves the sad dreams go.

O Lord, Thou art my saviour too: I know not what my cure; But all my best, Thou, Lord, wilt do; And hoping I endure.



VII.

THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD.

Near him she stole, rank after rank; She feared approach too loud; She touched his garment's hem, and shrank Back in the sheltering crowd.

A trembling joy goes through her frame: Her twelve years' fainting prayer Is heard at last; she is the same As other women there.

She hears his voice; He looks about. Ah! is it kind or good To bring her secret sorrow out Before that multitude?

With open love, not secret cure, The Lord of hearts would bless; With age-long gladness, deep and sure, With wealth of tenderness.

Her shame can find no shelter meet; Their eyes her soul appal: Forward she sped, and at his feet Fell down, and told Him all.

His presence made a holy place; No alien eyes were there; Her shamed-faced grief found godlike grace; More sorrow, tenderer care.

"Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; Go, and be well, and glad." Ah, Lord! if we had faith, our soul Not often would be sad.

Thou knowest all our hidden grief Which none but Thee can know; Thy knowledge, Lord, is our relief; Thy love destroys our woe.



VIII.

THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES.

Here much and little change their name With changing need and time; But more and less new judgments claim, Where all things are sublime.

Sickness may be more hale than health, And service kingdom high; Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, To give like God thereby.

Bring forth your riches,—let them go, Nor mourn the lost control; For if ye hoard them, surely so Their rust will reach your soul.

Cast in your coins; for God delights When from wide hands they fall; But here is one who brings two mites, "And yet gives more than all."

She heard not, she, the mighty praise; Went home to care and need: Perchance the knowledge still delays, And yet she has the meed.



IX.

THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM.

They give Him freely all they can, They give Him clothes and food; In this rejoicing, that the Man Is not ashamed they should.

Enough He labours for his hire; Yea, nought can pay his pain; The sole return He doth require Is strength to toil again.

And this, embalmed in truth, they bring, By love received as such; Their little, by his welcoming, Transformed into much.



X.

PILATE'S WIFE.

Strangely thy whispered message ran, Almost in form behest! Why came in dreams the low-born man To part thee from thy rest?

It may be that some spirit fair, Who knew not what must be, Fled in the anguish of his care For help for him to thee.

But rather would I think thee great; That rumours upward went, And pierced the palisades of state In which thy rank was pent;

And that a Roman matron thou, Too noble for thy spouse, The far-heard grandeur must allow, And sit with pondering brows.

And so thy maidens' gathered tale For thee with wonder teems; Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale Returneth in thy dreams.

And thou hast suffered for his sake Sad visions all the night: One day thou wilt, then first awake, Rejoice in his dear light.



XI.

THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA.

The empty pitcher to the pool She bore in listless mood: In haste she turned; the pitcher full Beside the water stood.

To her was heard the age's prayer: He sat upon the brink; Weary beside the waters fair, And yet He could not drink.

He begged her help. The woman's hand Was ready to reply; From out the old well of the land She drew Him plenteously.

He spake as never man before; She stands with open ears; He spoke of holy days in store, Laid bare the vanished years.

She cannot grapple with her heart, Till, in the city's bound, She cries, to ease the joy-born smart, "I have the Master found."

Her life before was strange and sad; Its tale a dreary sound: Ah! let it go—or good or bad, She has the Master found.



XII.

MARY MAGDALENE.

With eyes aglow, and aimless zeal, Throughout the land she goes; Her tones, her motions, all reveal A mind without repose.

She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, By madness tortured, driven; One hour's forgetfulness would be A gift from very heaven.

The night brings sleep, the sleep distress; The torture of the day Returns as free, in darker dress, In more secure dismay.

No soft-caressing, soothing palm Her confidence can raise; No eye hath loving force to calm And draw her answering gaze.

He comes. He speaks. A light divine Dawns gracious in thy soul; Thou seest love and order shine,— His health will make thee whole.

One wrench of pain, one pang of death, And in a faint delight, Thou liest, waiting for new breath, For morning out of night.

Thou risest up: the earth is fair, The wind is cool and free; As when a dream of mad despair Dissolves in ecstasy.

And, pledge of life and future high, Thou seest the Master stand; The life of love is in his eye, Its power is in his hand.

What matter that the coming time Will stain thy virgin name; Attribute thy distress to crime The worst for woman-fame;

Yea, call that woman Magdalen, Whom slow-reviving grace Turneth at last from evil men To seek the Father's face.

What matters it? The night is gone; Right joyous shines the sun; The same clear sun that always shone Ere sorrow had begun.

Oh! any name may come and bide, If he be well content To see not seldom by his side Thy head serenely bent.

Thou, sharing in the awful doom, Wilt help thy Lord to die; And, mourning o'er his empty tomb, First share his victory.



XIII.

THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE.

A still dark joy. A sudden face, Cold daylight, footsteps, cries; The temple's naked, shining space, Aglare with judging eyes.

With all thy wild abandoned hair, And terror-pallid lips, Thy blame unclouded to the air, Thy honour in eclipse;

Thy head, thine eyes droop to the ground, Thy shrinking soul to hide; Lest, at its naked windows found, Its shame be all descried.

Another shuts the world apart, Low bending to the ground; And in the silence of his heart, Her Father's voice will sound.

He stoops, He writes upon the ground, From all those eyes withdrawn; The awful silence spreads around In that averted dawn.

With guilty eyes bent downward still, With guilty, listless hands, All idle to the hopeless will, She, scorn-bewildered, stands.

Slow rising to his manly height, Fronting the eager eyes, The righteous Judge lifts up his might, The solemn voice replies:

(What, woman! does He speak for thee? For thee the silence stir?) "Let him who from this sin is free, Cast the first stone at her!"

Upon the death-stained, ashy face, The kindling blushes glow: No greater wonder sure had place When Lazarus forth did go!

Astonished, hopeful, growing sad, The wide-fixed eyes arose; She saw the one true friend she had, Who loves her though He knows.

Sick womanhood awakes and cries, With voiceless wail replete. She looks no more; her softening eyes Drop big drops at her feet.

He stoops. In every charnel breast Dead conscience rises slow. They, dumb before the awful guest, Turn one by one, and go.

They are alone. The silence dread Closes and deepens round. Her heart is full, her pride is dead; No place for fear is found.

Hath He not spoken on her side? Those cruel men withstood? Even her shame she would not hide— Ah! now she will be good.

He rises. They are gone. But, lo! She standeth as before. "Neither do I condemn thee; go, And sin not any more."

She turned and went. The veil of tears Fell over what had been; Her childhood's dawning heaven appears, And kindness makes her clean.

And all the way, the veil of tears Flows from each drooping lid; No face she sees, no voice she hears, Till in her chamber hid.

And then returns one voice, one face, A presence henceforth sure; The living glory of the place, To keep that chamber pure.

Ah, Lord! with all our faults we come,— With love that fails to ill; With Thee are our accusers dumb, With Thee our passions still.

Ah! more than father's holy grace Thy lips and brow afford; For more than mother's tender face We come to Thee, O Lord!



XIV.

MARTHA.

With joyful pride her heart is great: Her house, in all the land, Holds Him who conies, foretold by fate, With prophet-voice and hand.

True, he is poor and lowly born: Her woman-soul is proud To know and hail the coming morn Before the eyeless crowd.

At her poor table will He eat? He shall be served there With honour and devotion meet For any king that were.

'T is all she can; she does not fail; Her holy place is his: The place within the purple veil In the great temple is.

But many crosses she must bear, Straight plans are sideways bent; Do all she can, things will not wear The form of her intent.

With idle hands, by Him unsought, Her sister sits at rest; 'Twere better sure she rose, and wrought Some service for their guest.

She feels a wrong. The feeling grows, As other cares invade: Strong in her right, at last she goes To claim her sister's aid.

Ah, Martha! one day thou like her, Or here, or far beyond, Will sit as still, lest, but to stir, Should break the charmed bond.



XV.

MARY.

1.

She sitteth at the Master's feet In motionless employ; Her ears, her heart, her soul complete Drinks in the tide of joy.

She is the Earth, and He the Sun; He shineth forth her leaves; She, in new life from darkness won, Gives back what she receives.

Ah! who but she the glory knows Of life, pure, high, intense; Whose holy calm breeds awful shows, Transfiguring the sense!

The life in voice she drinks like wine; The Word an echo found; Her ear the world, where Thought divine Incarnate was in sound.

Her holy eyes, brimful of light, Shine all unseen and low; As if the radiant words all night Forth at those orbs would go.

The opening door reveals a face Of anxious household state: "Car'st thou not, Master, for my case, That I alone should wait?"

Heavy with light, she lifts those eyes To Him who calmly heard; Ready that moment to arise, And go, before the word.

Her fear is banished by his voice, Her fluttering hope set free: "The needful thing is Mary's choice, She shall remain with me."

Oh, joy to every doubting heart, Doing the thing it would, If He, the Holy, take its part, And call its choice the good!

2.

Not now as then his words are poured Into her lonely ears; But many guests are at the board, And many tongues she hears.

With sacred foot she cometh slow, With daring, trembling tread; With shadowing worship bendeth low Above the godlike head.

The sacred chrism in snowy stone A gracious odour sends. Her little hoard, so slowly grown, In one full act she spends.

She breaks the box, the honoured thing! The ointment pours amain; Her priestly hands anoint her King, And He shall live and reign.

They called it waste. Ah, easy well! Their love they could endure; For her, her heart did ache and swell, That she forgot the poor.

She meant it for the coming crown; He took it for the doom; And his obedience laid Him down, Crowned in the quiet tomb.



XVI.

THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER

She washes them with sorrow sweet, She wipes them with her hair; Her kisses soothe the weary feet, To all her kisses bare.

The best of woman, beauty's crown, She spends upon his feet; Her eyes, her lips, her hair, flung down, In one devotion meet.

His face, his words, her heart had woke. She judged Him well, in sooth: Believing Him, her bonds she broke, And fled to Him for truth.

His holy manhood's perfect worth Redeems the woman's ill: Her thanks intense to Him burn forth, Who owns her woman still.

And so, in kisses, ointment, tears, And outspread lavish hair, An earnest of the coming years, Ascends her thankful prayer.

If Mary too her hair did wind The holy feet around; Such tears no virgin eyes could find, As this sad woman found.

And if indeed his wayworn feet With love she healed from pain; This woman found the homage meet, And taught it her again.

The first in grief, ah I let her be, And love that springs from woe; Woe soothed by Him more tenderly That sin doth make it flow.

Simon, such kisses will not soil; Her tears are pure as rain; Her hair—'tis Love unwinds the coil, Love and her sister Pain.

If He be kind, for life she cares; A light lights up the day; She to herself a value bears, Not yet a castaway.

And evermore her heart arose, And ever sank away; For something crowned Him o'er her woes, More than her best could say.

Rejoice, sweet sisters, holy, pure, Who hardly know her case: There is no sin but has its cure, But finds its answering grace.

Her heart, although it sinned and sank, Rose other hearts above: Bless her, dear sisters, bless and thank, For teaching how to love.

He from his own had welcome sad— "Away with him," said they; Yet never lord or poet had Such homage in his day.

Ah Lord! in whose forgiveness sweet, Our life becomes intense! We, brothers, sisters, crowd thy feet— Ah! make no difference.

THE END.