 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
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MATER DESOLATA
This is the end, O Mother Piteous.
This is the end of all those sanctitudes
Hid in thy heart, and only known to thee,
And all is over, all is still as death,
Death which is here, and face to face with thee,
Thou living One who wast the Gate of Heaven.
This is his hour; and he has bowed thee down,
And bruised thee to the earth:—this hour is Death's.
This is the end which both have, hand in hand,
Ever foreseeing, journeyed to so long;
Yea, step by step, and hour by hour, drawn near.
And thou, thou hast thy Son within thy arms;
As thou didst hold thy naked new-born babe,
So on thy knees thy naked newly-dead
Is laid, thy Child, His head is on thy arm;
Here hast thou Him, O Mother, and even yet,
Sitting upon the ground, and all the seas
Of sorrow broken over thee, even yet
Art thou enthroned supreme in all this sphere,
The Queen of Sorrows upon Golgotha.
This is the end of all those sanctitudes
Hid in thy heart, and only known to thee,
And all is over, all is still as death,
Death which is here, and face to face with thee,
Thou living One who wast the Gate of Heaven.
This is his hour; and he has bowed thee down,
And bruised thee to the earth:—this hour is Death's.
This is the end which both have, hand in hand,
Ever foreseeing, journeyed to so long;
Yea, step by step, and hour by hour, drawn near.
And thou, thou hast thy Son within thy arms;
As thou didst hold thy naked new-born babe,
So on thy knees thy naked newly-dead
Is laid, thy Child, His head is on thy arm;
Here hast thou Him, O Mother, and even yet,
Sitting upon the ground, and all the seas
Of sorrow broken over thee, even yet
Art thou enthroned supreme in all this sphere,
The Queen of Sorrows upon Golgotha.
Mother, whose heart is deep as the deep sea!
What hast thou seen to-day, what hast thou done?
What is this place of slaughter and of skulls?
What day has this been, since the first ray broke,
And all the Temple precincts woke, and stirred
With bleatings of the lambs? What hours were those
Till noon?—when from the Temple steps there rang
The blast of trumpets, telling the Lamb was slain,
And over thee was reared and fixed the Cross?
What were those hours that passed—or were they years?—
Here,—and Thou standing by? Here didst thou stand;
Until a great cry rent the earth apart,
And in the Temple shook down right and left
The columns, and the Veil was rent in the midst.
In all the days was ever a day like this?
Or any Mother of mortal race like thee?
Whose feet have trod the long way dolorous.
What hast thou seen to-day, what hast thou done?
What is this place of slaughter and of skulls?
What day has this been, since the first ray broke,
And all the Temple precincts woke, and stirred
With bleatings of the lambs? What hours were those
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The blast of trumpets, telling the Lamb was slain,
And over thee was reared and fixed the Cross?
What were those hours that passed—or were they years?—
Here,—and Thou standing by? Here didst thou stand;
Until a great cry rent the earth apart,
And in the Temple shook down right and left
The columns, and the Veil was rent in the midst.
In all the days was ever a day like this?
Or any Mother of mortal race like thee?
Whose feet have trod the long way dolorous.
Thou hast thy dead, O Mother! All is still:
The swords are in thy heart; but in the air
Deepens the quiet of the Sabbath Eve;
Trembles no more the earth to any moan,
Reverberates through the mountains no more cry,
The day is dying, silent as the dead.
Evening:—there was one evening long ago,
When He had not yet come to Bethlehem,
And thou, and Joseph with thee, didst await
In an impenetrable ecstasy
The Midnight, under all the blissful stars.
He came, He came;—and He is gone again,
In darkness deeper, more impenetrable.
Evening—and desolation uttermost,
A bleak and bitter waste of stony hills,
This, this remains, the fruit of all thy years;
And before Midnight thou must lose whate'er
Of treasure still thou guardest in thy arms.
The swords are in thy heart; but in the air
Deepens the quiet of the Sabbath Eve;
Trembles no more the earth to any moan,
Reverberates through the mountains no more cry,
The day is dying, silent as the dead.
Evening:—there was one evening long ago,
When He had not yet come to Bethlehem,
And thou, and Joseph with thee, didst await
In an impenetrable ecstasy
The Midnight, under all the blissful stars.
He came, He came;—and He is gone again,
In darkness deeper, more impenetrable.
Evening—and desolation uttermost,
A bleak and bitter waste of stony hills,
This, this remains, the fruit of all thy years;
And before Midnight thou must lose whate'er
Of treasure still thou guardest in thy arms.
What fire is that which burns behind the hills?
The hills in the South—a spreading, slow, white fire,
And now ascending, orbèd, great, and pale?
O mighty Mother Moon, thou art all amazed!
Thy face is changed even now from white to wan.
What dost thou gaze upon across the spheres?
And who are these left on the Hill with thee?
In all thy wanderings through the fields of heaven,
The happy fields of heaven where grow the stars
In clusters, and among the hollow clouds,
Through silver centuries of centuries,
Mother of Months, thou hast not dreamt of this.
The hills in the South—a spreading, slow, white fire,
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O mighty Mother Moon, thou art all amazed!
Thy face is changed even now from white to wan.
What dost thou gaze upon across the spheres?
And who are these left on the Hill with thee?
In all thy wanderings through the fields of heaven,
The happy fields of heaven where grow the stars
In clusters, and among the hollow clouds,
Through silver centuries of centuries,
Mother of Months, thou hast not dreamt of this.
Still, still thou movest on, as in a trance;—
That trance divine of ten enchanted moons
Which over earth and air and ocean shed
Such hush of heaven that still they sleep in it.
And thou awakest now in wonderment,
And in a horror, and art turned to blood
Already in the darkness of the sky.
And what hast thou to do with Death, O Moon,
Who bringest all Earth's younglings to their Birth?
That trance divine of ten enchanted moons
Which over earth and air and ocean shed
Such hush of heaven that still they sleep in it.
And thou awakest now in wonderment,
And in a horror, and art turned to blood
Already in the darkness of the sky.
And what hast thou to do with Death, O Moon,
Who bringest all Earth's younglings to their Birth?
For thou art musing still, how all that time
Each herb, and moss, and tree drew from thy beams
Benignant influence, and thou didst infuse
Undreamed of beauty into every form
That did unfold itself;—while all the wings
Of butterflies waved glorious in the hues
Of other worlds, and all the quickened earth
Heaved with the upward rush of lily stalks
Budding, and every living thing rejoiced
In its own life, and all the harvesting
Was of the overladen corn and fruit.
The bees dropped rivulets of honey-gold
Through that unequalled year, and all the woods
Of the North were ravished with a music known
Never before among the nightingales;
And the mystic flower of the Samoyedes
Blossomed at midnight starry from the snow;
And from their fountains bubbling the swift streams
Sang to the stars a song of speechless joy,
Rushing along the rivers to the sea.
And all the brimming estuaries were filled
With many-coloured shoals, and every beach
With the soft wash of each retreating wave
Was strewn with iridescent multitudes
Of shells, and under the enrapturing skies
Auroral and nocturn, the halcyon Earth
Lay brooding through the long white sacred dream,
While the White Rose of the World hid in her heart
The Life of the World, and it was one with hers.
And thou, O magical, mysterious Moon,
Knewest all through thy interwoven dance,
And incantations betwixt sphere and sphere,
The pulse responsive, and the rise and fall
Of the Mother's bosom that kept time with thee.
Each herb, and moss, and tree drew from thy beams
Benignant influence, and thou didst infuse
Undreamed of beauty into every form
That did unfold itself;—while all the wings
Of butterflies waved glorious in the hues
Of other worlds, and all the quickened earth
Heaved with the upward rush of lily stalks
Budding, and every living thing rejoiced
In its own life, and all the harvesting
Was of the overladen corn and fruit.
The bees dropped rivulets of honey-gold
Through that unequalled year, and all the woods
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Never before among the nightingales;
And the mystic flower of the Samoyedes
Blossomed at midnight starry from the snow;
And from their fountains bubbling the swift streams
Sang to the stars a song of speechless joy,
Rushing along the rivers to the sea.
And all the brimming estuaries were filled
With many-coloured shoals, and every beach
With the soft wash of each retreating wave
Was strewn with iridescent multitudes
Of shells, and under the enrapturing skies
Auroral and nocturn, the halcyon Earth
Lay brooding through the long white sacred dream,
While the White Rose of the World hid in her heart
The Life of the World, and it was one with hers.
And thou, O magical, mysterious Moon,
Knewest all through thy interwoven dance,
And incantations betwixt sphere and sphere,
The pulse responsive, and the rise and fall
Of the Mother's bosom that kept time with thee.
For on thy breast, He lay, O Mother!—thy breast,
That could endure such sweetness, strengthened now
Through all thy days and nights of heavenly hope,
And marvelling desire, to bear at last
Thy consummation of beatitude.
The lovely limbs are thine, the downy head
That nestles on thy arm, the soft, small mouth,
The little hands are thine; it is thy Babe
That smiles upon thee with celestial eyes;
The Heaven of heavens breathes low upon thy breast.
Yea, thou didst dare the dazzling deeps of joy
Whereof none knoweth, none could bear but thee;
And all these things are hidden in thy heart.
And deeper grows thy heart with every day,
A royal water-lily that expands
Crown within crown around its golden Sun,
Pale with the lustre of the heavens. O Child,
How dost thou grow from day to day, and stand
Already in thy budded loveliness
The Darling of the World. O Mother, the while
With what absorbed and passionate wistfulness
Thy guardian eyes above thy nurseling brood.
Thou didst prevent the dawn, because the day
Could not contain the measureless delight
That rose in thy unfathomable heart,
A fountain ever-springing, which the wells
Of Marah had not over-flooded yet,
To speed the long day's hours from joy to joy,
Within the Holy House of Nazareth.
That could endure such sweetness, strengthened now
Through all thy days and nights of heavenly hope,
And marvelling desire, to bear at last
Thy consummation of beatitude.
The lovely limbs are thine, the downy head
That nestles on thy arm, the soft, small mouth,
The little hands are thine; it is thy Babe
That smiles upon thee with celestial eyes;
The Heaven of heavens breathes low upon thy breast.
Yea, thou didst dare the dazzling deeps of joy
Whereof none knoweth, none could bear but thee;
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And deeper grows thy heart with every day,
A royal water-lily that expands
Crown within crown around its golden Sun,
Pale with the lustre of the heavens. O Child,
How dost thou grow from day to day, and stand
Already in thy budded loveliness
The Darling of the World. O Mother, the while
With what absorbed and passionate wistfulness
Thy guardian eyes above thy nurseling brood.
Thou didst prevent the dawn, because the day
Could not contain the measureless delight
That rose in thy unfathomable heart,
A fountain ever-springing, which the wells
Of Marah had not over-flooded yet,
To speed the long day's hours from joy to joy,
Within the Holy House of Nazareth.
He runs beside thee, and His eager eyes
Wait on thy wishes; thou hast watched Him wake
From dreams of Heaven, and silent with excess
Of worship, thou, with many a delicate touch
Of delicate fingers, hast arrayed His limbs,
And disentangled all the golden curls;
And out among the earliest twitterings,
Already those two faces light the path,
(The little grassy path of easy steps,
With wild-flowers opening, wet with early dew,
Stretching by unknown, steep, precipitous ways
Up to this awful rock of Calvary).
The Child and Mother, each so like to each,
And both so innocent, and both so young,
The Child of Sunrise, and the Morning Star.
This is the End, this is the Sun-setting.—
Here is the Head once more upon thy arm,
O Mother! scarcely to thy bosom pressed,
Because too bruised even to pillow there.
But one by one the piercing thorns are plucked
Out of the bleeding brows, the matted hair
Is parted tenderly, thy delicate hands
(Amidst the raining, raining of thy tears
Bathing the holy face that looked on thee
Its first, its last, and was so like to thine)
Smooth into rest its agony once more.
Through every wound of every virgin limb
Thy tender fingers feel and search and close;
The piercèd hands drop lifeless in thine own,
And cold and stiff are growing even now;
And no man sees thy face, because thy face
Is hidden in thy veil, and neither He
Beholds it now; and thou hast closed His eyes.
Wait on thy wishes; thou hast watched Him wake
From dreams of Heaven, and silent with excess
Of worship, thou, with many a delicate touch
Of delicate fingers, hast arrayed His limbs,
And disentangled all the golden curls;
And out among the earliest twitterings,
Already those two faces light the path,
(The little grassy path of easy steps,
With wild-flowers opening, wet with early dew,
Stretching by unknown, steep, precipitous ways
Up to this awful rock of Calvary).
The Child and Mother, each so like to each,
And both so innocent, and both so young,
The Child of Sunrise, and the Morning Star.
This is the End, this is the Sun-setting.—
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O Mother! scarcely to thy bosom pressed,
Because too bruised even to pillow there.
But one by one the piercing thorns are plucked
Out of the bleeding brows, the matted hair
Is parted tenderly, thy delicate hands
(Amidst the raining, raining of thy tears
Bathing the holy face that looked on thee
Its first, its last, and was so like to thine)
Smooth into rest its agony once more.
Through every wound of every virgin limb
Thy tender fingers feel and search and close;
The piercèd hands drop lifeless in thine own,
And cold and stiff are growing even now;
And no man sees thy face, because thy face
Is hidden in thy veil, and neither He
Beholds it now; and thou hast closed His eyes.
O Mother of Sorrows inconsolable,
Whose sufferings there could none compassionate
Save One, and He has left thee now alone!
The wrenched and ghastly feet are the same feet,
The little warm feet fondled in thy hands,
O Mother-hands! that have not, many a day,
So held Him on thy knees;—and thou hast yet
His Body, made of thine, to dress once more.
Thou hast not faltered yet, thou hast not swerved
In all thy shuddering task; the quick soft hands,
Of face and form marred more than man's before,
Have made again the image pitiful
Of a Divine, dead, marble majesty.
Whose sufferings there could none compassionate
Save One, and He has left thee now alone!
The wrenched and ghastly feet are the same feet,
The little warm feet fondled in thy hands,
O Mother-hands! that have not, many a day,
So held Him on thy knees;—and thou hast yet
His Body, made of thine, to dress once more.
Thou hast not faltered yet, thou hast not swerved
In all thy shuddering task; the quick soft hands,
Of face and form marred more than man's before,
Have made again the image pitiful
Of a Divine, dead, marble majesty.
This Babe whom thou didst wrap in swaddling-clothes:—
Oh! that first kiss upon the dawning smile!
Oh! this last kiss upon the livid brows!
The last, last touches on the wounds that wring
Thy heartstrings, which God made too strong to break.
More priceless is this anguish than that bliss;
For whatsoever light revealed, foreshown,
Pierces thy veilèd darkness with some dim
Presage of Resurrection, or of some
Crowned seat in Heaven far, far in other days,
Never will that Immortal Son again
Have need of mortal Mother:—yet this once
A minute, and a minute more is thine.
This is thy own, to wash, to dress, to hold,
Thy Son's own Body, fruit of thine own womb,
Yea, to anoint Him for His burial,
And heap the herbs and spices round His limbs,
All things being past save this last agony,
And at the end to fold the winding-sheet.
Oh! that first kiss upon the dawning smile!
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The last, last touches on the wounds that wring
Thy heartstrings, which God made too strong to break.
More priceless is this anguish than that bliss;
For whatsoever light revealed, foreshown,
Pierces thy veilèd darkness with some dim
Presage of Resurrection, or of some
Crowned seat in Heaven far, far in other days,
Never will that Immortal Son again
Have need of mortal Mother:—yet this once
A minute, and a minute more is thine.
This is thy own, to wash, to dress, to hold,
Thy Son's own Body, fruit of thine own womb,
Yea, to anoint Him for His burial,
And heap the herbs and spices round His limbs,
All things being past save this last agony,
And at the end to fold the winding-sheet.
But oh! this is the last time,—be it joy
Or sorrow, Heaven or Hell, what matters it?
For these are minutes that are passing now;
The hours have passed, the last long hours of all,
Even as passed the days and years behind;
And never, never more through all the deeps
Of that Redemption consummated now
Shall He be helpless, nursed within thy arms,
Nor shall thy hands do mother-service more.
Or sorrow, Heaven or Hell, what matters it?
For these are minutes that are passing now;
The hours have passed, the last long hours of all,
Even as passed the days and years behind;
And never, never more through all the deeps
Of that Redemption consummated now
Shall He be helpless, nursed within thy arms,
Nor shall thy hands do mother-service more.
Thou droopest lower and lower over Him,
While even now the jealous winding-sheet
Beneath thy hands is stealing Him away.
Is there no more to do?—Is there no more?
While even now the jealous winding-sheet
Beneath thy hands is stealing Him away.
Is there no more to do?—Is there no more?
| The hours of the passion and other poems | |