Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

With no forbidden vow
To thy blest name we bow,
Holiest of women, nor, with suppliant knee,
And fondly whisper'd prayer,
The votive gift prepare,
Which yet, with reverent heart, we bring to Thee,
As to the highly favour'd, from whose womb
Into this groaning world did its Redeemer come.

II

Not as enthroned on high
Near Heaven's dread Majesty;
Not as endued with Mediatorial power,
With Christ to intercede
For human hearts that bleed
When sin assails, or care and grief devour;
Not as the Queen of Heaven, by right divine,
Do we bemock thy praise, or idolize thy shrine.

III

We know not on what shore,
Since life's brief toil was o'er,
Thy soul hath sojourn'd; whether dreamless sleep,
Diffused o'er brain and breast,

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Lulls sense and thought to rest,
While angels their calm watch beside thee keep,
Till their great Captain's trump shall rend the tomb,
Proclaiming the dread day of Nature's final doom.

IV

Or whether, near the side
Of Him, the Crucified,
Thy Saviour and thy Son, already tasting
Rich antepasts of Heaven,
(Thy mortal sins forgiven
For his dear sake) thou calmly view'st the wasting
Of Time's dull ages, which must fade and flee,
Ere body, soul, and sense, in perfect bliss can be;

V

Or whether, from on high,
Thou lead'st the company
Of spirits sent to minister below
To all salvation's heirs,
Soothing their human cares,
And o'er their darkest hours of earthly woe
Breathing the balm of Heaven's eternal peace,
And smoothing danger's waves, and causing fear to cease.

VI

Such hosts as once of old
Did mortal eye behold,
Unseen till then, nor ever since display'd;
When, in the illumined mount,
In numbers passing count,
Chariot on chariot, horse with horse array'd
In fiery legions, with empyreal blaze,
At the great Prophet's prayer burst on his servant's gaze.

VII

Such forms as oft seem nigh
To Christian dreamer's eye,

109

At lonely twilight, or the tearful hour
When friends, long parted, meet
In converse sad but sweet,
Of friends fast bound in Death's still grasping power;
The loved, the long'd for, who, from their repose,
Look down, they fondly deem, on all their joys and woes.

VIII

No thought of man can guess
In what obscure recess
Of Heaven or Earth those blessed souls may be
Who, purged from fleshly stain,
Are from the galling chain
Of fleshly bondage, by the grave, set free;
We know not of their haunts, but know that thou
Art e'en as one of them, and with them mingled now.

IX

Of all that saintly host
With whom consort'st thou most?
To whom (if disembodied spirits frame
Intelligible speech,
Imparting, each to each,
Thought for which we, the earthly, have no name)—
To whom, O Holiest, dost thou now disclose
The pure and peaceful thoughts which gladden thy repose?

X

Haply they all to thee
Yield meet precedency,—
To thee, the saintliest of all saints confest;
Encircling some bright throne
Whereon thou reign'st alone,
The virgin queen of all the realm of rest;
Dispensing smiles, like light, from side to side,
On ranks of radiant saints, and martyrs glorified.

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XI

Yet one, perchance, there is,
Joint heiress of thy bliss,
And scarce less honour'd; before whom e'en thou,
With reverence due, lay'st down
Thine amaranthine crown,
And veil'st the blaze of thy effulgent brow;
She, our great Mother, Mary, ours and thine,
And saved, like us and thee, by love and grace divine.

XII

On her majestic face
The blest still haply trace
The lingering look of scarce forgotten sadness;
E'en while, in rapture mild,
On thee her favourite child
She gazeth through bright smiles and tears of gladness,
For earth's four thousand years of grief and gloom
Ended by Him who lay within thy Virgin womb.

XIII

Two forms are at her side,
Serene and thoughtful-eyed;
Abel and Enoch;—Death's first victim this;
For whom that bitterest pain
First pierced the heart and brain
Of Parents mourning for Earth's dearest bliss;
The other, deathless raised from Earth to Heaven,
Type of the grave subdued, and sin, through faith, forgiven.

XIV

And, haply, some there be,
Erewhile endued, like thee,
With woman's holiest heart; who trod on earth
The ways of Heavenly truth,—
Meek Hannah, constant Ruth,
And that fair Persian Queen of Hebrew birth:

111

Some, haply, who with thee on Earth were seen,
Martha, and Mary, and repentant Magdalene.

XV

And others whom even we
(If fondest Phantasy
May image that which Love would fain believe)
Have walk'd with here below,—
Now freed from all Earth's woe—
Souls whom thou may'st, with tenderest love, receive;
Mothers, and wives, and maidens undefiled,
And infants who, even here, might on thy lap have smiled.

XVI

But wherefore thus prolong,
In vain, presumptuous song,
Poor shadowy fancies of a world unseen!
Why strive to picture thee,
As what thou now may'st be—
Rather than that which thou indeed hast been;
A mortal dweller in this world of death,
A thing of flesh and blood, instinct with human breath?

XVII

As such, men yielded thee
Their fond idolatry,
(For which thou weep'st, if souls in glory can;)
For thee impassion'd thought
Such fleshly beauty wrought,
As thrills the enamour'd soul of sensual man.
So the meek mother, with her babe divine,
Was hymn'd with many a vow at many an erring shrine.

XVIII

Nor e'er with subtler wile
The old Tempter did beguile

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His victim Man from worship pure and true;
Assembling whatsoe'er
Of holy, bright and fair
Creation yieldeth to our human view;
When to thy name he bade us bend the knee,
Fall down before thy shrine, and fondly worship Thee.

XIX

For in thy heart did meet
Such feelings pure and sweet
As never met in woman save in thee;
The maid's, the mother's heart,
Complete in every part,
Woman's meek faith, and angel's purity;
So Heaven and Earth in thee commingled seem;—
Whate'er on Earth we love,—whate'er of Heaven we dream.

XX

No wanton fancies wild
Thy maiden prime beguiled;
Nor hopes, nor fears of Earth's tumultuous love;
But Faith to visions high
Unseal'd thy mental eye,
And fix'd thy earnest heart on things above.
Meet wast thou, and most worthy to behold
That glorious angel's face, who thy great doom foretold.

XXI

Nor at thy nuptial hour,
Nor in thy bridal bower,
Might earthly passion and light dalliance be;
But o'er thy saintly soul
An awful rapture stole,
When Heaven's creative power o'ershadow'd thee,
Impregnating thy chaste and virgin womb
With Him who died to rise triumphant o'er the tomb.

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XXII

And when that hour was come,
Consign'd, by Eve's dread doom,
To bitterest anguish, with no mortal throes
Of travail dire, but free
From nature's agony,
Didst thou the treasure of thy womb disclose;
And, at the fountains of thy virgin breast,
First feed Heaven's newborn heir, then cradle him to rest.

XXIII

Nor did thy bosom know
A mother's anxious woe;
Her painful pressure of continual care;
Her wakeful hopes and fears;
Her secret sighs and tears;
When o'er her child, of sin and death the heir,
She watcheth with a heart of wild unrest,
Lest sickness seize his frame, or sin corrupt his breast.

XXIV

For he, the immortal, grew,
With tender heart and true,
In wisdom, as in stature, at thy feet;
His bosom free within
From speck or taint of sin;
Each act in outward rectitude complete;
And in thy lowly home, with reverence mild,
Did all thy gentle will, a grave and godly child.

XXV

Communion calm and pure
Was that which did endure
Through childhood's years between his soul and thine;
O'er many a treasured word
From his dear accents heard,
And breathing wisdom high and love divine,

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Brooded thy heart until the hour was come,
When He for God's great work must leave his tranquil home.

XXVI

Never on earth, till then,
In all the haunts of men,
Did such a mother watch o'er such a child;
'Twas thine alone to see,
From tenderest infancy
To perfect manhood, nature undefiled
By act or thought of sin, each day revealing
New depths of guileless love, and pure and heavenly feeling.

XXVII

Say, swell'd thy heart with pride,
When thou beheld'st him ride
In meekest glory, in the after years;
While, strewn o'er all his way,
Branches and garments lay,
And loud Hosannahs, pealing in his ears,
Hail'd him the promised king from David's stem,
Coming in triumph to his own Jerusalem?

XXVIII

And when the traitor's art
Had done its hateful part,
And speechless he, and uncomplaining stood;
By cruel scourges torn,
While many a piercing thorn
Bedew'd his godlike brow with streams of blood;
And the coarse rabble, with insulting cry,
Taunted his patient grief, and mock'd his agony;—

XXIX

When on the cross he hung
With parch'd and feverish tongue,

115

By torture dire and dreadful anguish spent;
Till Earth's convulsive groan
Proclaim'd his spirit flown,
While the hills trembled, and the rocks were rent,
And heaven itself lay wrapt in distant gloom,
And many a buried saint rose from his bursting tomb;—

XXX

What feeling then was thine?
Did thy pure heart repine
At thy child's anguish? or, in him beholding
All sorrow slain at last,
And Death's dread empire past,
Couldst thou rejoice, e'en while, (thy arms enfolding
His gentle corpse in their most pure embrace,)
Thou gazed'st thro' thy tears on that pale, lifeless face?

XXXI

And when, (his conflicts o'er,)
From Hades' shadowy shore
Return'd, he rose triumphant o'er the tomb;
Oh! shared he not with thee,
In tenderest sympathy,
His joy and triumph for man's alter'd doom?
Wast thou alone, of all he loved, forgot,
The only friend on earth whom he remember'd not?

XXXII

Where wast thou in that hour
When he, by Death's dark power
Enthrall'd erewhile in his sepulchral prison,
Once more on earth was seen
By faithful Magdalene?
Why heardst not thou the greeting, “He hath risen!
Come, see the place in which the Saviour lay;
The seal is broken now, the stone is roll'd away?”

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XXXIII

For many a day appear'd
That form and face revered
Where brethren met, and many a word was spoken
By that divinest voice,
Which made their hearts rejoice
In pain and peril; yet he left no token,
By man recorded, of especial love,
No word or thought of thee ere yet he went above.

XXXIV

We know not, nor may gess
Why slept his tenderness
(Or seem'd to sleep) once deeply felt tow'rd thee;
Or if indeed he came,
In heart and soul the same
E'en as in childhood he was wont to be,
To lay his deathless trophies at thy feet,
And all his pangs to thee and all his joys repeat.

XXXV

Such things may well have been—
Too sacred to be seen
By human eye, or told by human pen;
Yea; till thy aged breast
Sank to its final rest,
And thy form faded from the eyes of men,
Such parting words may in its depths have dwelt
As gave thee peace and joy which none but thou have felt.

XXXVI

But vain all efforts be
Of venturous phantasy
To such dim heights of shadowy thought to climb:
Almost unmeet it seems
To suffer her wild dreams
Round thee to float, and in fantastic rhyme,

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Depict thee, to the mind's believing eye,
In false and fading tints of airy imagery.

XXXVII

We deem thee bright and fair,
Almost as angels are;
And haply such thou wast; but few endure
To picture thee grown old
'Midst sorrows manifold,
Widow'd and childless, feeble, frail and poor;
With wrinkled brow, and locks of hoary gray,
And eye grown dim and dull by years of slow decay.

XXXVIII

Nor love our hearts the gloom
Diffused around the tomb
Which hides thy form, to hungry worms a prey;
Nor bear, in thought, to trace
Corruption's foul embrace
Wasting thy sweet mortality away.
Thou art too fair, too heavenly-bright a thing
To bear the loathly breath of such imagining.

XXXIX

But thee, with features mild,
On thy celestial child
Down-looking, in bright youth's resplendent bloom,
We cherish with fond heart;
As many a limner's art
Shadows thee forth, unsullied by the gloom
Of years or mortal pain; thy gentle eyes
Beaming forth Heaven's own love, like gleams from Paradise.

XI

And yet, methinks, 'twere well
Our foolish hearts should dwell

118

On thy fair image e'en in its decay;
Remembering that of old,
Beneath the wormy mould,
As we must lie, the Saviour's mother lay;
Like us the grave, like us corruption saw,
Subject, like us and ours, to Death's unbending law.

XLI

'Twas thine on earth to share
Whatever griefs we bear,
Christ's parent, yet our sister; and to thee
Our reverent hearts look back
O'er Time's mysterious track,
As to the first by Heaven ordain'd to be
A Christian matron—that most holy thing
Which human thought can frame in all its wandering.

XLII

And Woman, who began
Then first to rank with Man,
His subject, but thenceforth no more his slave;
Derives, in part, from thee
Her righteous victory
O'er injury and wrong; and o'er thy grave
In thought laments, meet reverence to express
To thee, in Christian rights, her first great ancestress.

XLIII

Such honours still be thine;
Such wreaths for ever twine
Around thy sepulchre as now we bring;
Such greetings thither come
From many a Christian home,
Where wife, and husband, and glad children sing,
At morn and eve, their hymn of peace and love,
For comfort here below, to him who reigns above.

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XLIV

Let Christian maids from thee,
Type of virginity,
Borrow their blameless thoughts, their calm desires;
And Christian matrons seek
Thy spirit mild and meek;
Thy holy wisdom; sons and reverend sires,
By love like thine in Christian nurture rear'd,
Still bless the mother's looks, the mother's tones revered.

XLV

But hark! the trump of doom
Peals through, and bursts the tomb!
The living and the dead together throng
Before the eternal throne,
Whereon He sits alone,
Who died upon the cross for human wrong.
Mary, the child to whom thy womb gave birth,
Unveil'd in glory stands; sole judge of heaven and earth.

XLVI

And thee, and us, and all,
That dreadful trump must call,
To hear our several dooms by Him decreed:
In terror of that day
Vain fancy melts away;
E'en Christian faith doth tremble like a reed
Sway'd by the wind:—we think of Thee no more;
Our song is silent now; its music past and o'er.