University of Virginia Library

It was the evening of a summer day
Serene and breathless; gentle dews from heaven
Fell silently upon the grateful flowers,
That all the livelong day had bowed their heads
Drooping with heat, but now from every sod
Sent up their happy perfumes to the sky,
Purer than man's thanksgiving. From the brake
Tufted with jessamine gushed the enchanting song
Of the rapt nightingale; and round the well,
Filling their pitchers, underneath the palm,
The village girls, a gay and graceful throng,
Stood laughing. But anon a sadder mood
Fell on their spirits, as they thought of her,
Who lay even now beyond a father's hope,
To smile, or raise her fair young head again—
Jairus' daughter. Hushed was all their glee;
And their hearts smote them, as they homeward went,
That they did laugh but now, and she the while,
Their innocent playmate, dying—perchance dead.

He was a ruler of the synagogue,
A dark grave man, not cheerful, but austere
And stern withal, though pious. He had known
Sorrow and suffering, and had weaned his heart
From earthly things to fix his hope on high.
Yet ever would his gloomy brow unbend,
As the blithe carol of that little maid,
Or the clear treble of her joyous laugh,
Spoke music to his ear, and won his soul
To smile on her, when darkest.
He had watched
Long days beside her couch, and marked the change
Creep o'er her face, the shadow which death casts
Before his coming. Save his own, no hand
Had smoothed her pillow; none had raised but he
The chalice to her lips, which still were wreathed
Into the painful semblance of a smile,
Striving to thank him for 't. He broke no bread,
Nor tasted wine, but sat in desolate grief,
Since the first night the fever smote his child,
Rending his garments, and with ceaseless prayer
Seeking the Lord; until all hope was o'er,
And it was evident that, ere the sun
Should leave the plain, her soul must pass away.

But while he mourned a neighbor entered in,
And told him how the Son of man was nigh,
Teaching the people on this side the sea.
Then he arose, and went his way, and fell
Before the feet of Jesus, where he stood,
And earnestly besought him, crying, “Lord,
My little daughter lieth, even now,
At point of death. I pray thee, come to her,
And lay thy hands on her; and she shall live.”
And Jesus went along with him. And they
Who had been gathered round him followed on,
And thronged him. And a certain woman there,
Which had been wasted by a flow of blood
Twelve weary years, came in the press behind
And touched his garment's selvage—for she said,
“If I but touch his clothes, I shall be whole!”
But he perceiving turned himself about,
And asked the crowd, who touched his raiment's hem.
Then she, in fear and trembling, being healed,
And knowing that was done in her, fell down
Confessing. And he said to her, “Arise,
Daughter, and go in peace; thy faith alone
Hath made thee whole!”
And while he yet did speak,
Came handmaids running from the ruler's house,
Which said, “Thy child is dead, why troublest thou
The Master farther?” But when Jesus heard,
He said unto the father, “Yet fear not!
Only believe!”
And thence he suffered none
To follow after him, save James, and John,
Brother of James, and Peter; and he came
Into the house—a pleasant house and fair,
Shadowed by olives, and a creeping vine
That wound about the casements, with green leaves
In the calm sunshine twinkling, and the plash
Of a cool fountain from the inner court
Murmuring pleasantly. But now the voice
Of men that wept, and woman's shriller wail,
Filled all with tumult, and the sound of woe.
He said to them, “Why make ye this ado?
And wherefore weep ye? the maid is not dead,
But sleepeth?
And they laughed him to scorn!
Then did he put them forth, and taking none
But her that bore the maiden, sorrowing now
With an exceeding sorrow, and the sire,
And those that came with him, he entered in
Where she was laid.
Her face was very pale—
Paler than her white vestment; and her lips,
Parted a little, wore almost the smile
Which constantly played over them in life,
Nor had in death quite passed from them. Her hands
Were folded on her breast. Some fresh bright flowers,
Sweets to the sweet, scattered their perfume round,
Emblems of beauty's briefness—soon to die.
But when he took her by the hand, and cried,
“Damsel, I say to thee, arise!” a blush,
A warm bright blush, shot o'er the ashy face,
Conscious and beautiful; the pallid lips
Waxed rosy, and breathed forth an odorous sigh;
And she upraised her eyes with a clear light,
Alive and lustrous; and arose straightway
And walked.
Astonished were all they that saw,
With great astonishment; and yet their joy
Was mightier than their wonder was, or woe
Had been. The father, the austere dark man,
Who had not wept before for very dearth
Of tears and agony of soul, wept now.
But these were tears of thankfulness, not grief.