THE DISCIPLE.

DEDICATION.

  To all who fain
  Would keep the grain,
        And cast the husk away—
  That it may feed
  The living seed,
        And serve it with decay—
  I offer this dim story
  Whose clouds crack into glory.

THE DISCIPLE.

I.

  The times are changed, and gone the day
      When the high heavenly land,
  Though unbeheld, quite near them lay,
      And men could understand.

  The dead yet find it, who, when here,
      Did love it more than this;
  They enter in, are filled with cheer,
      And pain expires in bliss.

  All glorious gleams the blessed land!—
       O God, forgive, I pray:
  The heart thou holdest in thy hand
       Loves more this sunny day!

  I see the hundred thousand wait
       Around the radiant throne:
  Ah, what a dreary, gilded state!
       What crowds of beings lone!

  I do not care for singing psalms;
       I tire of good men's talk;
  To me there is no joy in palms,
       Or white-robed, solemn walk.

  I love to hear the wild winds meet,
       The wild old winds at night;
  To watch the cold stars flash and beat,
       The feathery snow alight.

  I love all tales of valiant men,
       Of women good and fair:
  If I were rich and strong, ah, then
      I would do something rare!

  But for thy temple in the sky,
      Its pillars strong and white—
  I cannot love it, though I try,
      And long with all my might.

  Sometimes a joy lays hold on me,
      And I am speechless then;
  Almost a martyr I could be,
      To join the holy men.

  Straightway my heart is like a clod,
      My spirit wrapt in doubt:—
  A pillar in the house of God,
      And never more go out!

  No more the sunny, breezy morn;
      All gone the glowing noon;
  No more the silent heath forlorn,
      The wan-faced waning moon!

  My God, this heart will never burn,
      Must never taste thy joy!
  Even Jesus' face is calm and stern:
      I am a hapless boy!

* * * * *

II.

  I read good books. My heart despairs.
      In vain I try to dress
  My soul in feelings like to theirs—
      These men of holiness.

  My thoughts, like doves, abroad I fling
      Into a country fair:
  Wind-baffled, back, with tired wing,
      They to my ark repair.

  Or comes a sympathetic thrill
      With long-departed saint,
  A feeble dawn, without my will,
      Of feelings old and quaint,

  As of a church's holy night,
      With low-browed chapels round,
  Where common sunshine dares not light
      On the too sacred ground,—

  One glance at sunny fields of grain,
      One shout of child at play—
  A merry melody drives amain
      The one-toned chant away!

  My spirit will not enter here
      To haunt the holy gloom;
  I gaze into a mirror mere,
      A mirror, not a room.

  And as a bird against the pane
      Will strike, deceived sore,
  I think to enter, but remain
      Outside the closed door.

  Oh, it will call for many a sigh
      If it be what it claims—
  This book, so unlike earth and sky,
      Unlike man's hopes and aims!—

  To me a desert parched and bare—
      In which a spirit broods
  Whose wisdom I would gladly share
      At cost of many goods!

* * * * *

III.

  O hear me, God! O give me joy
      Such as thy chosen feel;
  Have pity on a wretched boy;
      My heart is hard as steel.

  I have no care for what is good;
      Thyself I do not love;
  I relish not this Bible-food;
      My heaven is not above.

  Thou wilt not hear: I come no more;
      Thou heedest not my woe.
  With sighs and tears my heart is sore.
      Thou comest not: I go.

* * * * *

IV.

  Once more I kneel. The earth is dark,
      And darker yet the air;
  If light there be, 'tis but a spark
      Amid a world's despair—

  One hopeless hope there yet may be
      A God somewhere to hear;
  The God to whom I bend my knee—
      A God with open ear.

  I know that men laugh still to scorn
      The grief that is my lot;
  Such wounds, they say, are hardly borne,
      But easily forgot.

  What matter that my sorrows rest
      On ills which men despise!
  More hopeless heaves my aching breast
      Than when a prophet sighs.

  AEons of griefs have come and gone—
      My grief is yet my mark.
  The sun sets every night, yet none
      Sees therefore in the dark.

  There's love enough upon the earth,
      And beauty too, they say:
  There may be plenty, may be dearth,
      I care not any way.

  The world hath melted from my sight;
      No grace in life is left;
  I cry to thee with all my might,
      Because I am bereft.

  In vain I cry. The earth is dark,
      And darker yet the air;
  Of light there trembles now no spark
      In my lost soul's despair.

* * * * *

V.

  I sit and gaze from window high
      Down on the noisy street:
  No part in this great coil have I,
      No fate to go and meet.

  My books unopened long have lain;
      In class I am all astray:
  The questions growing in my brain,
      Demand and have their way.

  Knowledge is power, the people cry;
      Grave men the lure repeat:
  After some rarer thing I sigh,
      That makes the pulses beat.

  Old truths, new facts, they preach aloud—
      Their tones like wisdom fall:
  One sunbeam glancing on a cloud
      Hints things beyond them all.

* * * * *

VI.

  But something is not right within;
      High hopes are far gone by.
  Was it a bootless aim—to win
      Sight of a loftier sky?

  They preach men should not faint, but pray,
      And seek until they find;
  But God is very far away,
      Nor is his countenance kind.

  Yet every night my father prayed,
      Withdrawing from the throng!
  Some answer must have come that made
      His heart so high and strong!

  Once more I'll seek the God of men,
      Redeeming childhood's vow.—
  —I failed with bitter weeping then,
      And fail cold-hearted now!

VII.

  Why search for God? A man I tread
      This old life-bearing earth;
  High thoughts awake and lift my head—
      In me they have their birth.

  The preacher says a Christian must
      Do all the good he can:—
  I must be noble, true, and just,
      Because I am a man!

  They say a man must watch, and keep
      Lamp burning, garments white,
  Else he shall sit without and weep
      When Christ comes home at night:—

  A man must hold his honour free,
      His conscience must not stain,
  Or soil, I say, the dignity
      Of heart and blood and brain!

  Yes, I say well—said words are cheap!
      For action man was born!
  What praise will my one talent reap?
      What grapes are on my thorn?

  Have high words kept me pure enough?
      In evil have I no part?
  Hath not my bosom "perilous stuff
      That weighs upon the heart"?

  I am not that which I do praise;
      I do not that I say;
  I sit a talker in the ways,
      A dreamer in the day!

VIII.

  The preacher's words are true, I know—
      That man may lose his life;
  That every man must downward go
      Without the upward strife.

  'Twere well my soul should cease to roam,
      Should seek and have and hold!
  It may be there is yet a home
      In that religion old.

  Again I kneel, again I pray:
      Wilt thou be God to me?
  Wilt thou give ear to what I say,
      And lift me up to thee?

  Lord, is it true? Oh, vision high!
      The clouds of heaven dispart;
  An opening depth of loving sky
      Looks down into my heart!

  There is a home wherein to dwell—
      The very heart of light!
  Thyself my sun immutable,
      My moon and stars all night!

  I thank thee, Lord. It must be so,
      Its beauty is so good.
  Up in my heart thou mad'st it go,
      And I have understood.

  The clouds return. The common day
      Falls on me like a No;
  But I have seen what might be—may,
      And with a hope I go.

IX.

  I am a stranger in the land;
      It gives no welcome dear;
  Its lilies bloom not for my hand,
      Its roses for my cheer.

  The sunshine used to make me glad,
      But now it knows me not;
  This weight of brightness makes me sad—
      It isolates a blot.

  I am forgotten by the hills,
      And by the river's play;
  No look of recognition thrills
      The features of the day.

  Then only am I moved to song,
      When down the darkening street,
  While vanishes the scattered throng,
      The driving rain I meet.

  The rain pours down. My thoughts awake,
      Like flowers that languished long;
  From bare cold hills the night-winds break,
      From me the unwonted song.

X.

  I read the Bible with my eyes,
      But hardly with my brain;
  Should this the meaning recognize,
      My heart yet reads in vain.

  These words of promise and of woe
      Seem but a tinkling sound;
  As through an ancient tomb I go,
      With dust-filled urns around.

  Or, as a sadly searching child,
      Afar from love and home,
  Sits in an ancient chamber, piled
      With scroll and musty tome,

  So I, in these epistles old
      From men of heavenly care,
  Find all the thoughts of other mould
      Than I can love or share.

  No sympathy with mine they show,
      Their world is not the same;
  They move me not with joy or woe,
      They touch me not with blame.

  I hear no word that calls my life,
      Or owns my struggling powers;
  Those ancient ages had their strife,
      But not a strife like ours.

  Oh, not like men they move and speak,
      Those pictures in old panes!
  They alter not their aspect meek
      For all the winds and rains!

  Their thoughts are full of figures strange,
      Of Jewish forms and rites:
  A world of air and sea I range,
      Of mornings and of nights!

XI.

  I turn me to the gospel-tale:—
      My hope is faint with fear
  That hungriest search will not avail
      To find a refuge here.

  A misty wind blows bare and rude
      From dead seas of the past;
  And through the clouds that halt and brood,
      Dim dawns a shape at last:

  A sad worn man who bows his face,
      And treads a frightful path,
  To save an abject hopeless race
      From an eternal wrath.

  Kind words he speaks—but all the time
      As from a formless height
  To which no human foot can climb—
      Half-swathed in ancient night.

  Nay, sometimes, and to gentle heart,
      Unkind words from him go!
  Surely it is no saviour's part
      To speak to women so!

  Much rather would I refuge take
      With Mary, dear to me,
  To whom that rough hard speech he spake—
      What have I to do with thee?

  Surely I know men tenderer,
      Women of larger soul,
  Who need no prayer their hearts to stir,
      Who always would make whole!

  Oftenest he looks a weary saint,
      Embalmed in pallid gleam;
  Listless and sad, without complaint,
      Like dead man in a dream.

  And, at the best, he is uplift
      A spectacle, a show:—
  The worth of such an outworn gift
      I know too much to know!

  How find the love to pay my debt?—
      He leads me from the sun!—
  Yet it is hard men should forget
      A good deed ever done!—

  Forget that he, to foil a curse,
      Did, on that altar-hill,
  Sun of a sunless universe,
      Hang dying, patient, still!

  But what is He, whose pardon slow
      At so much blood is priced?—
  If such thou art, O Jove, I go
      To the Promethean Christ!

XII.

  A word within says I am to blame,
      And therefore must confess;
  Must call my doing by its name,
      And so make evil less.

  "I could not his false triumph bear,
      For he was first in wrong."
  "Thy own ill-doings are thy care,
      His to himself belong."

  "To do it right, my heart should own
      Some sorrow for the ill."
  "Plain, honest words will half atone,
      And they are in thy will."

  The struggle comes. Evil or I
      Must gain the victory now.
  I am unmoved and yet would try:
      O God, to thee I bow.

  The skies are brass; there falls no aid;
      No wind of help will blow.
  But I bethink me:—I am made
      A man: I rise and go.

XIII.

  To Christ I needs must come, they say;
      Who went to death for me:
  I turn aside; I come, I pray,
      My unknown God, to thee.

  He is afar; the story old
      Is blotted, worn, and dim;
  With thee, O God, I can be bold—
      I cannot pray to him.

  Pray! At the word a cloudy grief
      Around me folds its pall:
  Nothing I have to call belief!
      How can I pray at all?

  I know not if a God be there
      To heed my crying sore;
  If in the great world anywhere
      An ear keeps open door!

  An unborn faith I will not nurse,
      Pursue an endless task;
  Loud out into its universe
      My soul shall call and ask!

  Is there no God—earth, sky, and sea
      Are but a chaos wild!
  Is there a God—I know that he
      Must hear his calling child!

XIV.

  I kneel. But all my soul is dumb
      With hopeless misery:
  Is he a friend who will not come,
      Whose face I must not see?

  I do not think of broken laws,
      Of judge's damning word;
  My heart is all one ache, because
      I call and am not heard.

  A cry where there is none to hear,
      Doubles the lonely pain;
  Returns in silence on the ear,
      In torture on the brain.

  No look of love a smile can bring,
      No kiss wile back the breath
  To cold lips: I no answer wring
      From this great face of death.

XV.

  Yet sometimes when the agony
      Dies of its own excess,
  A dew-like calm descends on me,
      A shadow of tenderness;

  A sense of bounty and of grace,
      A cool air in my breast,
  As if my soul were yet a place
      Where peace might one day rest.

  God! God! I say, and cry no more,
      But rise, and think to stand
  Unwearied at the closed door
      Till comes the opening hand.

XVI.

  But is it God?—Once more the fear
      Of No God loads my breath:
  Amid a sunless atmosphere
      I fight again with death.

  Such rest may be like that which lulls
      The man who fainting lies:
  His bloodless brain his spirit dulls,
      Draws darkness o'er his eyes.

  But even such sleep, my heart responds,
      May be the ancient rest
  Rising released from bodily bonds,
      And flowing unreprest.

  The o'ertasked will falls down aghast
      In individual death;
  God puts aside the severed past,
      Breathes-in a primal breath.

  For how should torture breed a calm?
      Can death to life give birth?
  No labour can create the balm
      That soothes the sleeping earth!

  I yet will hope the very One
      Whose love is life in me,
  Did, when my strength was overdone,
      Inspire serenity.

XVII.

  When the hot sun's too urgent might
      Hath shrunk the tender leaf,
  Water comes sliding down the night,
      And makes its sorrow brief.

  When poet's heart is in eclipse,
      A glance from childhood's eye,
  A smile from passing maiden's lips,
      Will clear a glowing sky.

  Might not from God such influence come
      A dying hope to lift?
  Might he not send to poor heart some
      Unmediated gift?

  My child lies moaning, lost in dreams,
      Abandoned, sore dismayed;
  Her fancy's world with horror teems,
      Her soul is much afraid:

  I lay my hand upon her breast,
      Her moaning dies away;
  She does not wake, but, lost in rest,
      Sleeps on into the day.

  And when my heart with soft release
      Grows calm as summer-sea,
  Shall I not hope the God of peace
      Hath laid his hand on me?

XVIII.

  But why from thought should fresh doubt start—
      An ever-lengthening cord?
  Might he not make my troubled heart
      Right sure it was the Lord?

  God will not let a smaller boon
      Hinder the coming best;
  A granted sign might all too soon
      Rejoice thee into rest.

  Yet could not any sign, though grand
      As hosts of fire about,
  Though lovely as a sunset-land,
      Secure thy soul from doubt.

  A smile from one thou lovedst well
      Gladdened thee all the day;
  The doubt which all day far did dwell
      Came home with twilight gray.

  For doubt will come, will ever come,
      Though signs be perfect good,
  Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb,
      And both are understood.

XIX.

  I shall behold him, one day, nigh.
      Assailed with glory keen,
  My eyes will open wide, and I
      Shall see as I am seen.

  Of nothing can my heart be sure
      Except the highest, best
  When God I see with vision pure,
      That sight will be my rest.

  Forward I look with longing eye,
      And still my hope renew;
  Backward, and think that from the sky
      Did come that falling dew.

XX.

  But if a vision should unfold
      That I might banish fear;
  That I, the chosen, might be bold,
      And walk with upright cheer;

  My heart would cry: But shares my race
      In this great love of thine?
  I pray, put me not in good case
      Where others lack and pine.

  Nor claim I thus a loving heart
      That for itself is mute:
  In such love I desire no part
      As reaches not my root.

  But if my brothers thou dost call
      As children to thy knee,
  Thou givest me my being's all,
      Thou sayest child to me.

  If thou to me alone shouldst give,
      My heart were all beguiled:
  It would not be because I live,
      And am my Father's child!

XXI.

  As little comfort would it bring,
      Amid a throng to pass;
  To stand with thousands worshipping
      Upon the sea of glass;

  To know that, of a sinful world,
      I one was saved as well;
  My roll of ill with theirs upfurled,
      And cast in deepest hell;

  That God looked bounteously on one,
      Because on many men;
  As shone Judea's earthly sun
      On all the healed ten.

  No; thou must be a God to me
      As if but me were none;
  I such a perfect child to thee
      As if thou hadst but one.

XXII.

  Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not
      A blessing just for me?
  Shall I be, barely, not forgot?—
      Never come home to thee?

  Hast thou no care for this one child,
      This thinking, living need?
  Or is thy countenance only mild,
      Thy heart not love indeed?

  For some eternal joy I pray,
      To make me strong and free;
  Yea, such a friend I need alway
      As thou alone canst be.

  Is not creative infinitude
      Able, in every man,
  To turn itself to every mood
      Since God man's life began?

  Art thou not each man's God—his own,
      With secret words between,
  As thou and he lived all alone,
      Insphered in silence keen?

  Ah, God, my heart is not the same
      As any heart beside;
  My pain is different, and my blame,
      My pity and my pride!

  My history thou know'st, my thoughts
      Different from other men's;
  Thou knowest all the sheep and goats
      That mingle in my pens.

  Thou knowest I a love might bring
      By none beside me due;
  One praiseful song at least might sing
      Which could not but be new.

XXIII.

  Nor seek I thus to stand apart,
      In aught my kind above;
  My neighbour, ah, my troubled heart
      Must rest ere thee it love!

  If God love not, I have no care,
      No power to love, no hope.
  What is life here or anywhere?
      Or why with darkness cope?

  I scorn my own love's every sign,
      So feeble, selfish, low,
  If his love give no pledge that mine
      Shall one day perfect grow.

  But if I knew Thy love even such,
      As tender and intense
  As, tested by its human touch,
      Would satisfy my sense

  Of what a father never was
     But should be to his son,
  My heart would leap for joy, because
      My rescue was begun.

  Oh then my love, by thine set free,
      Would overflow thy men;
  In every face my heart would see
      God shining out again!

  There are who hold high festival
      And at the board crown Death:
  I am too weak to live at all
      Except I breathe thy breath.

  Show me a love that nothing bates,
      Absolute, self-severe—
  Even at Gehenna's prayerless gates
      I should not "taint with fear."

XXIV.

  I cannot brook that men should say—
      Nor this for gospel take—
  That thou wilt hear me if I pray
      Asking for Jesus' sake.

  For love to him is not to me,
      And cannot lift my fate;
  The love is not that is not free,
      Perfect, immediate.

  Love is salvation: life without
      No moment can endure.
  Those sheep alone go in and out
      Who know thy love is pure.

XXV.

  But what if God requires indeed,
      For cause yet unrevealed,
  Assent to one fixed form of creed,
      Such as I cannot yield?

  Has God made for Christ's sake a test—
      To take or leave the crust,
  That only he may have the best
      Who licks the serpent-dust?

  No, no; the words I will not say
      With the responding folk;
  I at his feet a heart would lay,
      Not shoulders for a yoke.

  He were no lord of righteousness
      Who subjects such would gain
  As yield their birthright for a mess
      Of liberty from pain!

  "And wilt thou bargain then with Him?"
      The priest makes answer high.
  'Tis thou, priest, makest the sky dim:
      My hope is in the sky.

XXVI.

  But is my will alive, awake?
      The one God will not heed
  If in my lips or hands I take
      A half-word or half-deed.

  Hour after hour I sit and dream,
      Amazed in outwardness;
  The powers of things that only seem
      The things that are oppress;

  Till in my soul some discord sounds,
      Till sinks some yawning lack;
  Then turn I from life's rippling rounds,
      And unto thee come back.

  Thou seest how poor a thing am I,
      Yet hear, whate'er I be;
  Despairing of my will, I cry,
      Be God enough to me.

  My spirit, low, irresolute,
      I cast before thy feet;
  And wait, while even prayer is mute,
      For what thou judgest meet.

XXVII.

  My safety lies not, any hour,
      In what I generate,
  But in the living, healing power
      Of that which doth create.

  If he is God to the incomplete,
      Fulfilling lack and need,
  Then I may cast before his feet
      A half-word or half-deed.

  I bring, Lord, to thy altar-stair,
      To thee, love-glorious,
  My very lack of will and prayer,
      And cry—Thou seest me thus!

  From some old well of life they flow!
      The words my being fill!—
  "Of me that man the truth shall know
      Who wills the Father's will."

XXVIII.

  What is his will?—that I may go
      And do it, in the hope
  That light will rise and spread and grow,
      As deed enlarges scope.

  I need not search the sacred book
      To find my duty clear;
  Scarce in my bosom need I look,
      It lies so very near.

  Henceforward I must watch the door
      Of word and action too;
  There's one thing I must do no more,
      Another I must do.

  Alas, these are such little things!
      No glory in their birth!
  Doubt from their common aspect springs—
      If God will count them worth.

  But here I am not left to choose,
      My duty is my lot;
  And weighty things will glory lose
      If small ones are forgot.

  I am not worthy high things yet;
      I'll humbly do my own;
  Good care of sheep may so beget
      A fitness for the throne.

  Ah fool! why dost thou reason thus?
      Ambition's very fool!
  Through high and low, each glorious,
      Shines God's all-perfect rule.

  'Tis God I need, not rank in good:
      'Tis Life, not honour's meed;
  With him to fill my every mood,
      I am content indeed.

XXIX.

  Will do: shall know: I feel the force,
      The fullness of the word;
  His holy boldness held its course,
      Claiming divine accord.

  What if, as yet, I have never seen
      The true face of the Man!
  The named notion may have been
      A likeness vague and wan;

  A thing of such unblended hues
      As, on his chamber wall,
  The humble peasant gladly views,
      And Jesus Christ doth call.

  The story I did never scan
      With vision calm and strong;
  Have never tried to see the Man,
      The many words among.

  Pictures there are that do not please
      With any sweet surprise,
  But gain the heart by slow degrees
      Until they feast the eyes;

  And if I ponder what they call
      The gospel of God's grace,
  Through mists that slowly melt and fall
      May dawn a human face.

  What face? Oh, heart-uplifting thought,
      That face may dawn on me
  Which Moses on the mountain sought,
      God would not let him see!

XXX.

  All faint at first, as wrapt in veil
      Of Sinai's cloudy dark,
  But dawning as I read the tale,
      I slow discern and mark

  A gracious, simple, truthful man,
      Who walks the earth erect,
  Nor stoops his noble head to one
      From fear or false respect;

  Who seeks to climb no high estate,
      No low consent secure,
  With high and low serenely great,
      Because his love is pure.

  Oh not alone, high o'er our reach,
      Our joys and griefs beyond!
  To him 'tis joy divine to teach
      Where human hearts respond;

  And grief divine it was to him
      To see the souls that slept:
  "How often, O Jerusalem!"
      He said, and gazed, and wept.

  Love was his very being's root,
      And healing was its flower;
  Love, human love, its stem and fruit,
      Its gladness and its power.

  Life of high God, till then unseen!
      Undreamt-of glorious show!
  Glad, faithful, childlike, love-serene!—
      How poor am I! how low!

XXXI.

  As in a living well I gaze,
      Kneeling upon its brink:
  What are the very words he says?
      What did the one man think?

  I find his heart was all above;
      Obedience his one thought;
  Reposing in his father's love,
      His father's will he sought.

* * * * *

XXXII.

  Years have passed o'er my broken plan
      To picture out a strife,
  Where ancient Death, in horror wan,
      Faced young and fearing Life.

  More of the tale I tell not so—
      But for myself would say:
  My heart is quiet with what I know,
      With what I hope, is gay.

  And where I cannot set my faith,
      Unknowing or unwise,
  I say "If this be what he saith,
      Here hidden treasure lies."

  Through years gone by since thus I strove,
      Thus shadowed out my strife,
  While at my history I wove,
      Thou wovest in the life.

  Through poverty that had no lack
      For friends divinely good;
  Through pain that not too long did rack,
      Through love that understood;

  Through light that taught me what to hold
      And what to cast away;
  Through thy forgiveness manifold,
      And things I cannot say,

  Here thou hast brought me—able now
      To kiss thy garment's hem,
  Entirely to thy will to bow,
      And trust thee even for them

  Who in the darkness and the mire
      Walk with rebellious feet,
  Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire
      For heavenly floor unmeet!

  Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how—
      With this blue air, blue sea,
  This yellow sand, that grassy brow,
      All isolating me—

  Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart,
      My thoughts to thine draw near;
  But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart,
      Who gav'st me words must hear.

  Thou mad'st the hand with which I write,
      The eye that watches slow
  Through rosy gates that rosy light
      Across thy threshold go;

  Those waves that bend in golden spray,
      As if thy foot they bore:
  I think I know thee, Lord, to-day,
      Shall know thee evermore.

  I know thy father thine and mine:
      Thou the great fact hast bared:
  Master, the mighty words are thine—
      Such I had never dared!

  Lord, thou hast much to make me yet—
      Thy father's infant still:
  Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set,
      That I may grow thy will.

  My soul with truth clothe all about,
      And I shall question free:
  The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt,
      In that fear doubteth thee.

THE GOSPEL WOMEN.

I.

THE MOTHER MARY.

I.

  Mary, to thee the heart was given
  For infant hand to hold,
  And clasp thus, 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.

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

  But unshared sorrows, gathering slow,
  Will rise within thy heart,
  Strange thoughts which like a sword will go
  Thorough thy inward part.

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

  Wild grief would rave on love's high throne;
  She, sitting in the door,
  All day would cry: "He was my own,
  And now is mine no more!"

  So 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 godlike tenderness
  Would sometimes seem, in human speech,
  To thee than human less.

  Strange pangs await thee, mother mild,
  A sorer travail-pain;
  Then will the spirit of thy child
  Be born in thee again.

  Till then thou wilt forebode and dread;
  Loss will be still thy fear—
  Till he be gone, and, in his stead,
  His very self appear.

  For, when thy son hath reached his goal,
  And vanished from the earth,
  Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul,
  A second, holier birth.

II.

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

  In sweet reproach her gladness hid,
  Her trembling voice says—low,
  Less like the chiding than the chid—
  "How couldst thou leave us so?"

  But will her dear heart understand
  The answer that he gives—
  Childlike, eternal, simple, grand,
  The law by which he lives?

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

  "My father's business—that ye know
  I cannot choose but do."
  Mother, if he that work forego,
  Not long he cares for you.

  Creation's harder, better part
  Now occupies his hand:
  I marvel not the mother's heart
  Not yet could understand.

III.

  The Lord of life among 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,
  Their last red drops outpour;
  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
  Ere yet her words arise.

  "They have no wine!" she, halting, said,
  Her prayer but half begun;
  Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head,
  Show what thou art, my son!"

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

  Ah woman dear, thou must not fret
  Thy heart's desire to see!
  His hour of honour is not yet—
  'Twill come too soon for thee!

  His word was dark; his tone was kind;
  His heart the mother knew;
  His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined;
  They gave her heart the cue.

  Another, on the word intent,
  Had read refusal there;
  She heard in it a full consent,
  A sweetly answered prayer.

  "Whate'er he saith unto you, do."
  Out flowed his grapes divine;
  Though then, as now, not many knew
  Who makes the water wine.

IV.

  "He is beside himself!" Dismayed,
  His mother, brothers talked:
  He from the well-known path had strayed
  In which their fathers walked!

  With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud
  Some one the message bore:—
  He stands within, amid a crowd,
  They at the open door:—

  "Thy mother and thy brothers would
  Speak with thee. Lo, they stand
  Without and wait thee!" Like a flood
  Of sunrise on the land,

  A new-born light his face o'erspread;
  Out from his eyes it poured;
  He lifted up that gracious head,
  Looked round him, took the word:

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

  Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear—
  They are our humble lord's!
  O mother, did they wound thy ear?—
  We thank him for the words.

  "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say,
  Stretching his hand abroad,
  "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they
  That do the will of God!"

  My brother! Lord of life and me,
  If life might grow to this!—
  Would it not, brother, sister, be
  Enough for all amiss?

  Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice:
  Thou art his mother still,
  But may'st be more—of thy own choice
  Doing his Father's will.

  Ambition for thy son restrain,
  Thy will to God's will bow:
  Thy son he shall be yet again.
  And twice his mother thou.

  O humble man, O faithful son!
  That woman most forlorn
  Who yet thy father's will hath done,
  Thee, son of man, hath born!

V.

  Life's best things gather round its close
  To light it from the door;
  When woman's aid no further goes,
  She weeps and loves the more.

  She doubted oft, feared for his life,
  Yea, feared his mission's loss;
  But now she shares the losing strife,
  And weeps beside the cross.

  The dreaded hour is come at last,
  The sword hath reached her soul;
  The hour of tortured hope is past,
  And gained the awful goal.

  There hangs the son her body bore,
  The limbs her arms had prest!
  The hands, the feet the driven nails tore
  Had lain upon her breast!

  He speaks; the words how faintly brief,
  And how divinely dear!
  The mother's heart yearns through its grief
  Her dying son to hear.

  "Woman, behold thy son.—Behold
  Thy mother." Blessed hest
  That friend to her torn heart to fold
  Who understood him best!

  Another son—ah, not instead!—
  He gave, lest grief should kill,
  While he was down among the dead,
  Doing his father's will.

  No, not instead! the coming joy
  Will make him hers anew;
  More hers than when, a little boy,
  His life from hers he drew.

II.

THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE.

  Filled with his words of truth and right,
  Her heart will break or cry:
  A woman's cry bursts forth in might
  Of loving agony.

  "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare!
  The bosom that thee fed!"
  A moment's silence filled the air,
  All heard the words she said.

  He turns his face: he knows the cry,
  The fountain whence it springs—
  A woman's heart that glad would die
  For woman's best of things.

  Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear,
  He never quenched or chode:
  "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear
  And keep the word of God!"

  He would uplift her, not rebuke.
  The crowd began to stir.
  We miss how she the answer took;
  We hear no more of her.

III.

THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN.

  She knelt, she bore a bold request,
  Though shy to speak it out:
  Ambition, even in mother's breast,
  Before him stood in doubt.

  "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now,
  My sons on thy right hand
  And on thy left shall sit when thou
  Art king, Lord, in the land."

  "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay
  A baptism and a cup
  She understood not, in the way
  By which he must go up.

  Her mother-love would lift them high
    Above their fellow-men;
  Her woman-pride would, standing nigh,
    Share in their grandeur then!

  Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest,
    Counted her prayer well heard,
  Had they, of three on Calvary's crest,
    Hung dying, first and third?

  She knoweth neither way nor end:
    In dark despair, full soon,
  She will not mock the gracious friend
    With prayer for any boon.

  Higher than love could dream or dare
    To ask, he them will set;
  They shall his cup and baptism share,
    And share his kingdom yet!

  They, entering at his palace-door,
    Will shun the lofty seat;
  Will gird themselves, and water pour,
    And wash each other's feet;

  Then down beside their lowly Lord
    On the Father's throne shall sit:
  For them who godlike help afford
    God hath prepared it.

IV.

THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN.

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

  Their pride, by condescension fed,
      He shapes with teaching tongue:
  "It is not meet the children's bread
      To little dogs be flung."

  The words, for tender heart so sore,
      His voice did seem to rue;
  The gentle wrath his countenance wore,
      With her had not to do.

  He makes her share the hurt of good,
      Takes what she would have lent,
  That those proud men their evil mood
      May see, and so repent;

  And that the hidden faith in her
      May burst in soaring flame:
  With childhood deeper, holier,
      Is birthright not the same?

  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!

  "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small
      Under the table eat
  The crumbs the little ones let fall—
      That is not thought unmeet."

  The prayer rebuff could not amate
      Was not like water spilt:
  "O woman, but thy faith is great!
      Be it even as thou wilt."

  Thrice happy she who yet will dare,
      Who, baffled, prayeth still!
  He, if he may, will grant her prayer
      In fulness of her will!

V.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

  Forth from the city, with the load
      That makes the trampling low,
  They walk along the dreary road
      That dust and ashes go.

  The other way, toward the gate
      Their trampling strong and loud,
  With hope of liberty elate,
      Comes on another crowd.

  Nearer and nearer draw the twain—
      One with a wailing cry!
  How could the Life let such a train
      Of death and tears go by!

  "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier:
      They stand, the dead who bear;
  The mother knows nor hope nor fear—
      He waits not for her prayer.

  "Young man, I say to thee, arise."
      Who hears, he must obey:
  Up starts the body; wide the eyes
      Flash wonder and dismay.

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

  The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare
      Gives place to ordered sight;
  The murmur dies upon the air;
      The soul is dumb with light.

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

  Hold'st thou the news, as parent might
      A too good gift, away,
  Lest we should neither sleep at night,
      Nor do our work by day?

  The mother leaves us not a spark
      Of her triumph over grief;
  Her tears alone have left their mark
      Upon the holy leaf:

  Oft gratitude will thanks benumb,
      Joy will our laughter quell:
  May not Eternity be dumb
      With things too good to tell?

  Her straining arms her lost one hold;
      Question she asketh none;
  She trusts for all he leaves untold;
      Enough, to clasp her son!

  The ebb is checked, the flow begun,
      Sent rushing to the gate:
  Death turns him backward to the sun,
      And life is yet our fate!

VI.

THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND.

  For years eighteen she, patient soul,
      Her eyes had graveward sent;
  Her earthly life was lapt in dole,
      She was so bowed and bent.

  What words! To her? Who can be near?
      What tenderness of hands!
  Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere?
      New hope, or breaking bands?

  The pent life rushes swift along
      Channels it used to know;
  Up, up, amid the wondering throng,
      She rises firm and slow—

  To bend again in grateful awe—
      For will is power at length—
  In homage to the living Law
      Who gives her back her strength.

  Uplifter of the down-bent head!
      Unbinder of the bound!
  Who seest all the burdened
      Who only see the ground!

  Although they see thee not, nor cry,
      Thou watchest for the hour
  To lift the forward-beaming eye,
      To wake the slumbering power!

  Thy hand will wipe the stains of time
      From off the withered face;
  Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime
      Of youthful manhood's grace!

  Like summer days from winter's tomb,
      Shall rise thy women fair;
  Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom,
      Lo, is not anywhere!

  All ills of life shall melt away
      As melts a cureless woe,
  When, by the dawning of the day
      Surprised, the dream must go.

  I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too,
      Whate'er the needful cure;
  The great best only thou 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 shame-faced gladness thrills 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 drag her secret sorrow out
      Before that multitude?

  The eyes of men she dares not meet—
      On her they straight must fall!—
  Forward she sped, and at his feet
      Fell down, and told him all.

  To the one refuge she hath flown,
      The Godhead's burning flame!
  Of all earth's women she alone
      Hears there the tenderest name:

  "Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer;
      Thy faith hath made thee whole:"
  With plenteous love, not healing mere,
      He comforteth her soul.

VIII.

THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES.

  Here much and little shift and change,
      With scale of need and time;
  There more and less have meanings strange,
      Which the world cannot rime.

  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 thus gives more than all.

  I think she did not hear the praise—
      Went home content with need;
  Walked in her old poor generous ways,
      Nor knew her heavenly meed.