University of Virginia Library

With a sharp cry of pain she left her couch,
And, when her white foot touched the marble floor,
Stood, with dilated eye and cheek aflame,
And hair that from its fillet loosed flow'd down,
Over her ivory shoulders to her feet.
Pale was she, scared, and still. One small hand press'd
Her brow as tho' to hide some painful thought,
The other, clenched so tightly that the nails
Pierced the pink palm, fell stiffly at her side.
A moment thus she stood like statue carved
In marble: rigid, hardened into stone,—
Blanched as the surf upon the wild sea-shore,
When the waves break in foam upon the rocks.
Then, in a broken voice that shook with fear,
She called her trembling maidens to her side,
Who flocked around her, like a flock of doves
When fluttered by a hawk seen in the blue.
From many chambers they came running all,
And gathered near her with a sudden dread
That shook the ruddy colour from their cheeks.
She tried to speak, and could not, for no voice
Would follow at her bidding: the deep storm
Of passion choked it in the swelling throat.
With one great effort she grew calm; and now
Her words, clear and distinct, thrill'd on the ear,
And held the listeners spell-bound with their wail.
“Oh, maidens, such a dream! oh, such a dream!”
Trembling, she paused, then hurriedly went on:—
“Oh, tell me; said they not, that late last night
Jesus, the Man of Nazareth, whose fame
Has fill'd all ears, by one of His own friends
Betrayed, was by our soldiers ta'en, and led
To Pilate's judgment-hall, for that He made
Himself a King, opposing Cæsar's claims?
Some say this Jewish people sought His death
Because He spake some blasphemy against
Their God. I know not this. I saw Him once,—
A mien of mournful majesty, a face
All marred, yet noble, and alight with love,
And on it written a divine despair.
He moved along attended by a crowd
Of poor, diseased, and sick,—a piteous throng
Who came for healing, and for blessing too,
And found them both in Him. Some of His words
Have been to me repeated, and they fell
Upon mine ears more musical than song:
Of ‘rest’ they were,—rest to the weary,—rest
To laden ones, the sinful and the sad.
Say, maidens, is't not so?”

With wondering voice
They murmured in awe-stricken tones and low,
“Yea, Lady; yea!”

In passionate words she spake:
“Pilate did send me word he was to sit
Upon the judgment-seat to-day, and hear this cause.
A nameless horror chills me to the heart
As I forebode the sentence he may give;
For much he holds this people in contempt,
And laughs to scorn the customs of their law;
And if this Jewish Teacher hath said aught
Against great Cæsar's rights,—which I, for one,
Believe not, for His eye had that far glance
Which said His heart was with the gods,—not here,—
But if His claims should seem to clash with Cæsar's,
Alas, I know that Pilate would condemn!”
Her maidens answered: “Yea, he would condemn;
For he is loyal to the world's great lord.”
“But listen, maidens, whilst I tell my dream.
Methought a street, filled with a savage crowd,
Whose shouts and curses jarr'd upon the ear
As they did toss from angry lip to lip
One hated name, and gnash'd and ground their teeth,
And yelled, ‘Away with Him! Away with Him!
He is not fit to live,’ they cried,—‘Not fit to live!’
And shriek'd out, ‘Crucify Him! Crucify Him!’
And women's voices mingled with the hoarse
Deep bass of men, and cried in shrilling tones,—
‘On us, and on our children, be His blood!’
Till the streets rang with that dread awful prayer.
I look'd to see the object of their hate,—
Who He could be that all men joined to scorn.
Now swayed the surging crowd, and all at once
It opened, and I saw there in the midst
A face all pale and wan, beneath a brow
Crowned with a circlet of Acanthus thorns.
It might have melted hearts of hardest stone
To see this man, Jesus the Nazarene,
Weak, faint, and worn, stooping beneath a cross
Which pressed His shoulders; yet with such a look,—
A look majestic in its calm restraint.
If gods could suffer, He might be a god
Come down in shape and form of mortal men.
Yet no man pitied Him, no woman bless'd.
Still rang the streets with that fierce bitter cry,—
‘Away with Him! away with Him to death!’
I tried to speak: no words would come;
They died upon my lips in muffled sounds.
But e'en as though the prayer that on my tongue
Battled for utterance had been shriek'd aloud
And pierced His ears, to me He turned His face
With such a glance, so sad, yet so divine,
That gathering up my strength, methought I tried
To rush into the maddened crowd, and kneeling,
Plead for sweet pity's sake. I could not stir;
Limbs, feet, were rooted to the spot! I sought
To cry for mercy but no words would come,
And then a voice came thrilling on my ear,
Shaking my heart with terror as I heard
One well-known name. 'Twas ‘Pilate!’ and no more.
A thousand echoes caught the word, and all
The babbling air repeated, ‘Pilate! Pilate!’
Methought I swoon'd in horror; and it pass'd,—
That fearful vision,—to the darkness whence
It came to fill me with a nameless dread.”

She wept. She bowed her head, and the hot tears
Came welling from a heart was like to break,
And all the woman shook as she would die.
Her maidens, awed, aghast, stood weeping, too,
In broken words trying to soothe her grief.
But all in vain. And now once more she spake,
Lifting a face distained and wet with tears.
“So for a time; and then from out my sleep
Came divers shapes and forms, all indistinct
And vague. Then other images grew clear
Before my sight, up from the darkness drawn,
Until I saw what I shall bear to death,
So stampt is it upon my burning brain,
A memory to carry to the grave!”
She paused: she press'd her brow, as she would beat
Some anguish back; her eye the while ablaze
With a strange burning fire; and then again
In tones so piteous, low, and full of pain,
It seemed a wail from out a broken heart,
She poured her dream into her damsels' ear.
“Methought a surging crowd, a burning sky,
A little hill outside the city walls,
And on the hill three crosses planted close,
On these, nailed to the wood, three dying men.
But one alone,—the central cross,—drew heart
And eye, absorbing every thought; for here
He hung,—the Man of Sorrows, whom I saw
Hurried to death along the city's streets.
All white His face with agony, and stained
With blood that flowed in big and crimson drops
From the sharp crown was twisted round His brow.
The cruel nails had pierc'd the hands and feet,
And fixed them to the tree: and oh, the look
Of woe that filled those sad, pathetic eyes!
Men mocked Him as He hung there,—laugh'd and jeer'd:
‘Come down, come down,’ they cried, ‘and save Thyself
An' if thou be God's Son!’ And when there wailed
Upon the ear a piteous cry, ‘I thirst!’
They gave Him gall and vinegar to drink;
And flung into his dying face fierce oaths,
And cruel curses, and rude jests and jeers.
But He—He heeded not,—spoke not—was dumb.
Perhaps He heard not, for His thoughts seemed far
Away, as if they were in heaven with God.
And as I looked, longing to speak to Him
Of comfort, and to wipe from off His brow
The death-sweat,—say one heart there was that felt
For Him,—one that would save Him if she could,
But had no power; no power!—His eyes met mine,
And in that piteous face I saw the look
That I had seen across it pass before;
And all my soul grew faint and sick with fear.
Into that moment passed whole years of pain!
Then, as I looked, my heart all in my eyes,
There fell a sudden darkness on the world,
Blotting the sun out,—spreading o'er the skies,
Veiling the Sufferer in its night-black pall,—
Stilling the murmurs round the blood-stained cross.
And now the hush of death lay on the land:
A silent horror settled down on men!
As though the world stood still in its great course,
And Nature's pulses came to sudden pause.
Wondering I stood,—scarce breathing, filled with fear,
Dreading what next might follow, what befall;
When from the darkness rose a cry so dread,
So full of anguish, that it seemed to tear
The tortured heart, and rend it into twain.
Then a dire tremor shook the earth, the rocks:
'Twas cry of one forsaken of His God,—
A bitter cry that thrilling wail'd to heaven.
And with that cry, to me, all shuddering,
There came another word—a name,—spoken
This time by whom I knew not, but as sharp
As knife that draws the blood. The word was ‘Pilate!’
And once again a thousand echoes caught
The name, and all the sounding air was filled
With shrilling voices, crying, ‘Pilate! Pilate!’
Methought I caught it up, and shriek'd it out
As one who had no power of self-control.
I woke, and on my lips was ‘Pilate’ still.
And then I started from my bed, and called
You maidens all, to help me in this hour,
Whose fellow I have never known, and pray
The gods that I may never know again.
Help! what help can ye give? What help? what help?
What means this dream? Is it a warning giv'n
By Powers that wait on good? What should I do?
Am I to stand 'twixt Jesus and His doom?
Am I to save my husband from the guilt
That would condemn the innocent and just?
It must be so! Yes: Pilate must be warned,—
Ay, were he sitting on the judgment-seat,—
With all men crying out for this man's blood,
Not to surrender Him unto the will
Of fierce and cruel foes, nor listen, no!
To angry clamours of this Jewish mob.
Pilate, no matter what the cost, the right
Must do for once, and let the expedient go!
Haste ye, dear maids, and send to him with speed
A messenger, quick-footed, trusty, sure,
And rapid as the wind. Tell him to bear
This message to my lord without delay:
‘See thou have naught to do with that just Man,
For I, thy wife, this day in fearful dreams
Have suffered many things because of Him.’”

Frighted and pale, the maidens, trembling, flew
To give the message to a faithful slave
That waited near. Without delay he sped;
Fleet as the flash that lights up all the sky
When thunder crashes from the black'ning cloud,
So sped the slave to Pilate where he sat
In judgment on the Man of Nazareth;
To warn him not to harm the just, or think
That water could wash blood from guilty hands.
And she—the wife—all faint and white, sank prone
Upon her silken couch; with sickening fears,
And beatings of the heart that shook her frame,
To wait in agony the dreaded end.