Or washed thy garments in the stream;
To whose white bed had come the dream
That He was thine and thou wast His
Who feeds among the field-lilies.

O solemn shadow of the end

In that wise spirit long contain'd!
O awful end! and those unsaid
Long years when It was Finished!

Mind'st thou not (when the twilight gone
Left darkness in the house of John,)
Between the naked window-bars

That spacious vigil of the stars?—
For thou, a watcher even as they,

Wouldst rise from where throughout the day
Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor;
And, finding the fixed terms endure

Of day and night which never brought
Sounds of His coming chariot,

Wouldst lift through cloud-waste unexplor'd

Those eyes which said, "How long, O Lord?
Then that disciple whom He loved,
Well heeding, haply would be moved
To ask thy blessing in His name;

And that one thought in both, the same
Though silent, then would clasp ye round
To weep together,-tears long bound,
Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow.
Yet, Surely I come quickly,' SO
He said, from life and death gone home.
Amen even so, Lord Jesus, come !

"

But oh what human tongue can speak That day when Michael came to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil,

Its covenant with Gabriel

Endured at length unto the end?
What human thought can apprehend
That mystery of motherhood

When thy Beloved at length renew'd
The sweet communion severed,—
His left hand underneath thine head
And His right hand embracing thee?-
Lo! He was thine, and this is He!

Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope,

That lets me see her standing up

Where the light of the Throne is bright ?

Unto the left, unto the right,

The cherubim, succinct, conjoint,
Float inward to a golden point,
And from between the seraphim
The glory issues for a hymn.
O Mary Mother, be not loth

To listen,-thou whom the stars clothe,
Who seest and mayst not be seen!
Hear us at last, O Mary Queen!
Into our shadow bend thy face,
Bowing thee from the secret place,
O Mary Virgin, full of grace!

A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death.

"

THE PORTRAIT

THIS is her picture as she was:

It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass

Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,

Until mine eyes almost aver

That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart :And yet the earth is over her.

Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray

That makes the prison-depths more rude,The drip of water night and day

Giving a tongue to solitude.

Yet only this, of love's whole prize,
Remains; save what in mournful guise
Takes counsel with my soul alone,-
Save what is secret and unknown,
Below the earth, above the skies.

In painting her I shrined her face
'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in
Hardly at all; a covert place

Where you might think to find a din
Of doubtful talk, and a live flame

Wandering, and many a shape whose name
Not itself knoweth, and old dew,

And your own footsteps meeting you,
And all things going as they came.

A deep dim wood; and there she stands
As in that wood that day: for so
Was the still movement of her hands

And such the pure line's gracious flow.
And passing fair the type must seem,
Unknown the presence and the dream.
'Tis she though of herself, alas !
Less than her shadow on the grass
Or than her image in the stream.

That day we met there, I and she
One with the other all alone;
And we were blithe; yet memory
Saddens those hours, as when the moon
Looks upon daylight, And with her
I stopped to drink the spring-water,
Athirst where other waters sprang :
And where the echo is, she sang,-
My soul another echo there.

But when that hour my soul won strength
For words whose silence wastes and kills,
Dull raindrops smote us, and at length
Thundered the heat within the hills.
That eve I spoke those words again
Beside the pelted window-pane;

And there she hearkened what I said,
With under-glances that surveyed
The empty pastures blind with rain.

Next day the memories of these things,
Like leaves through which a bird has flown,
Still vibrated with Love's warm wings;

Till I must make them all my own
And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease
Of talk and sweet long silences,

She stood among the plants in bloom
At windows of a summer room,
To feign the shadow of the trees.

And as I wrought, while all above
And all around was fragrant air,
In the sick burthen of my love

It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there
Beat like a heart among the leaves.
O heart that never beats nor heaves,
In that one darkness lying still,

What now to thee my love's great will
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ?

For now doth daylight disavow

Those days-nought left to see or hear. Only in solemn whispers now

At night-time these things reach mine ear; When the leaf-shadows at a breath

Shrink in the road, and all the heath,
Forest and water, far and wide,
In limpid starlight glorified,

Lie like the mystery of death.

Last night at last I could have slept,
And yet delayed my sleep till dawn,
Still wandering. Then it was I wept :
For unawares I came upon

Those glades where once she walked with me:
And as I stood there suddenly,

All wan with traversing the night, Upon the desolate verge of light Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea.

Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears
The beating heart of Love's own breast,—
Where round the secret of all spheres

All angels lay their wings to rest,-
How shall my soul stand rapt and awed,
When, by the new birth borne abroad
Throughout the music of the suns,
It enters in her soul at once

And knows the silence there for God!

Here with her face doth memory sit
Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline,
Till other eyes shall look from it,
Eyes of the spirit's Palestine,
Even than the old gaze tenderer :
While hopes and aims long lost with her
Stand round her image side by side,
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
About the Holy Sepulchre.

FOR

OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS

BY LEONARDO DA VINCI

MOTHER, is this the darkness of the end,

The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea
Infinite imminent Eternity?

And does the death-pang by man's seed sustained
In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while He
Blesses the dead with His hand silently
To His long day which hours no more offend ?

Mother of grace, the pass is difficult,

Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls
Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through.
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols,
Whose peace abides in the dark avenue

Amid the bitterness of things occult.

AT THE SUN-RISE IN 1848

GOD said, Let there be light; and there was light.
Then heard we sounds as though the Earth did sing
And the Earth's angel cried upon the wing:

We saw priests fall together and turn white:
And covered in the dust from the sun's sight,
A king was spied, and yet another king.

We said: "The round world keeps its balancing;

On this globe, they and we are opposite,

If it is day with us, with them 'tis night."

Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember this:

Thou hadst not made that thy sons' sons shall ask

What the word king may mean in their day's task,

But for the light that led and if light is,

It is because God said, Let there be light.

AUTUMN SONG

KNOW'ST thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,

And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf ?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems-not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

THE LADY'S LAMENT

NEVER happy any more!
Aye, turn the saying o'er and o'er,
It says but what it said before,
And heart and life are just as sore.
The wet leaves blow aslant the floor
In the rain through the open door.
No, no more.

Never happy any more!

The eyes are weary and give o'er,
But still the soul weeps as before.
And always must each one deplore
Each once, nor bear what others bore?
This is now as it was of yore.

No, no more.

Never happy any more!

Is it not but a sorry lore

That says,

"Take strength, the worst is o'er"? Shall the stars seem as heretofore? The day wears on more and moreWhile I was weeping the day wore. No, no more.