 | [Poems by Larcom in] The ladies' wreath and Parlor Annual |  |
217
BETHANY.
The pale moon lingers on the hills
O'erhanging peaceful Bethany—
Her silent glance the valley fills,
And follows one lone traveller; he
With dust upon his garment's hem
Slow walking from Jerusalem.
O'erhanging peaceful Bethany—
Her silent glance the valley fills,
And follows one lone traveller; he
With dust upon his garment's hem
Slow walking from Jerusalem.
'Tis moonlight silvering thus his hair,
It is not age retards his tread,—
Acquainted well with grief and care,
He hath not where to lay his head.
A King, disguised and outcast, wends
To rest among his lowly friends.
It is not age retards his tread,—
Acquainted well with grief and care,
He hath not where to lay his head.
A King, disguised and outcast, wends
To rest among his lowly friends.
They stay for him their evening meal;
And Mary lingers at the door
To see his coming shadow steal
Between the palms, along the floor,
And anxious Martha wonders why
The Master's footfall draws not nigh.
And Mary lingers at the door
To see his coming shadow steal
Between the palms, along the floor,
And anxious Martha wonders why
The Master's footfall draws not nigh.
The shadow falls. The step is heard,
Like dew descends his calm “All hail!”
The welcome accents of the Lord
Float in upon the evening gale,
And Lazarus and his sisters twain
Forget their orphanage again.
Like dew descends his calm “All hail!”
The welcome accents of the Lord
Float in upon the evening gale,
And Lazarus and his sisters twain
Forget their orphanage again.
For Jesus' words the heart could thrill,
Than tenderest mother's dearer far—
“Lo! ye who do my Father's will
My sisters and my brethren are—
His glory shall ye shew with me,
Your hearts our chosen house shall be.”
Than tenderest mother's dearer far—
“Lo! ye who do my Father's will
My sisters and my brethren are—
His glory shall ye shew with me,
Your hearts our chosen house shall be.”
He seats him by the open door,
Beneath the palm-tree's fan-like shade,
While Martha guards the household store,
Meek Mary will her hair unbraid
To wipe the Master's weary feet
That she hath bathed with ointment sweet.
Beneath the palm-tree's fan-like shade,
While Martha guards the household store,
Meek Mary will her hair unbraid
To wipe the Master's weary feet
That she hath bathed with ointment sweet.
While thus her lowly place she keeps,
The Saviour talks of death at hand—
And Mary bows her head, and weeps
At words she cannot understand.
One gentle whisper soothes her pain,
“Be sure the dead shall rise again.”
The Saviour talks of death at hand—
And Mary bows her head, and weeps
At words she cannot understand.
One gentle whisper soothes her pain,
“Be sure the dead shall rise again.”
218
Yet, as he speaks, within his eyes
A sadness grows, of tears unshed;
Tears that shall fall where Lazarus lies,
And not alone for Lazarus dead;
But pitying tears for unbelief—
For promises forgot in grief.
A sadness grows, of tears unshed;
Tears that shall fall where Lazarus lies,
And not alone for Lazarus dead;
But pitying tears for unbelief—
For promises forgot in grief.
And Lazarus reads, in musings dim,
His fate, foreshadowing the Lord's:
Oh blest! to die, to rise like Him!
While all the listening air records;
The moonlight, thro' the palms swept down,
Rests on the Saviour like a crown.
His fate, foreshadowing the Lord's:
Oh blest! to die, to rise like Him!
While all the listening air records;
The moonlight, thro' the palms swept down,
Rests on the Saviour like a crown.
Love crowned Thee, Lord, at Bethany—
Alas! a heavier coronet
Awaited in Gethsemane—
There, blood-drops round thy brows were set;
Rubies from Sorrow's deepest mine;
Mysterious crown of Love Divine.
Alas! a heavier coronet
Awaited in Gethsemane—
There, blood-drops round thy brows were set;
Rubies from Sorrow's deepest mine;
Mysterious crown of Love Divine.
Affection's meed we too would bring—
Thou wilt our Friend, our Brother be,
Who closer to each other cling,
Because we closely cleave to Thee.
By love o'ershone, by sorrow tried,
Forever, Lord, with us abide.
Thou wilt our Friend, our Brother be,
Who closer to each other cling,
Because we closely cleave to Thee.
By love o'ershone, by sorrow tried,
Forever, Lord, with us abide.
Behold, thy scattered family
Of human souls, in Thee complete,
Looks to the distant hills for Thee,
And listens for Thy coming feet,—
Oh, bid our guilty discords cease,
And let Thy Presence bring us peace!
Of human souls, in Thee complete,
Looks to the distant hills for Thee,
And listens for Thy coming feet,—
Oh, bid our guilty discords cease,
And let Thy Presence bring us peace!
| [Poems by Larcom in] The ladies' wreath and Parlor Annual | |