And all the people that came together to that sight, beholding the things which were done, smote their breasts and returned.-ST. LUKE Xxiii. 48. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, But headlong Joy is ever on the wing, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light, Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving night. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Most perfect Hero tried in heaviest plight, Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight! He sovran Priest stooping his regal head, That dropped with odorous oil down his fair eyes, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies, THE DIRGE. Oh what a mask was there, what a disguise! Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. These latest scenes confine my roving verse, Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me, Night, best patroness of Grief, And work my flatter'd fancy to belief, That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe: 209 The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have washed a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem stood, In pensive trance, and anguish and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock, 210 THE DIRGE. And here through grief my feeble hands up lock, For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. John Milton. 1 The Women of Jerusalem. Jesus saith unto her, "Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended to my Father; but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God.”—St. John xx. 17. LIKE those pale stars of tempest hours, wliose gleam Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast E'en till away the heavenly spirit passed, Stood in the shadow of his agony. O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour, Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower Is all of love and suffering from her birth; Still hath your act a voice-through fear, through strife, Bidding her bind each tendril of her life, To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth. Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given After thy long, long vigil of despair, When that high voice which burial rocks had riven, 212 THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM. Never did clarion's royal blast declare 66 As the deep sweetness of one word could bear, Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bowed By strong affection's anguish!-one low word— Mary!"—and all the triumph wrung from death Was thus revealed! and thou that so hadst err'd, So wept and been forgiven, in trembling faith Didst cast thee down before th' all-conquering Son, Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won! Then was a task of glory all thine own, Nobler than e'er the still small voice assigned To lips in awful music making known The stormy splendors of some prophet's mind. Oh! raised from shame to brightness!—there doth lie Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth. |