University of Virginia Library

They stood beside the cross—the cruel cross,
That instrument of agony and death,
So dreadful, so protracted, so intense,
So mingling with intolerable pain,
The mad'ning thirst of fever and the weight
Of weariness,—until the victim sends
Each sobbing breath out, with a groaning prayer
That God will let him die.
'Twere terrible
To stand beside the cross, though on it hung
The veriest fiends that ever cursed the earth
With power to sin and suffer. Oh! the soul
Grows faint and sick, and shrinks into itself,
If bold imagination shadow forth
Such scene of torment. Weak humanity
Would veil such hideous picture; but the voice,
The weary husky voice, struggling at times
Into a piercing scream of such distress
As speaks the fiercest form of agony—
This voice is in the soul.
The cross! the cross!
Fond woman oft has stood beside the cross,
With heart and spirit dying with the pain
That wore away the life of her belov'd,
Her good, her beautiful, her precious one.—
They stood beside the cross,—beneath the cross
On which the object of their love, their faith,
Their worship, was expiring.
Many hearts
Had built their faith and ardent hopes on him;
Had followed as he tracked the rugged ways
From city unto city;—witnessing
The deeds that proved his mission.—Where were they?
Oh coward hearts! They had not strength to be
Beside the cross.—They had not nerve to bear
The sympathy of such exquisite wo;—
They had not courage to acknowledge him,
Who was despised, condemned, and crucified,
Their Friend, their Lord, and Master. Even those
Who had professed to him so earnestly:
We will not be offended, or deny
That we are thine, though we should die with thee,—
Even these forsook him in his hour of need,
And fled. One only of that craven band,
The youngest, tenderest-hearted, best beloved,
Stood with a heart like woman's, strong in love,
Beside the cross that day. But they were there,
The women, in whose bosoms earnest faith
Leaned on adoring love.—No fear of death,
Of shame or pain, could keep them from his side.
Devoted woman in her calendar
Reads no such words, as “Hide thyself for fear!”—
She cannot say, “I do not know the man,”
When danger gathers round a friend she loves;
But closer still she nestles to his side,
And gentler flow her words, as with soft hand
She seeks to lay sweet balm on every wound
That malice may inflict. She cannot save—
But she will soothe, and solace, and sustain
With strength that never fails—the strength of love.
They knew that he was great; that he had pow'r
To bind the viewless pinions of the wind,
The free strong wind—that he had pow'r to hush
The frantic billows of the stormy sea,
As with calm majesty he waved his hand
And uttered his commandment, “Peace—Be still”
That he controlled the fiercest of the fiends
That torture human nature; that disease
Was subject to him; that the spring of life
Gushed up afresh within the silent heart,
And poured its thrilling current, warm and free,
Along the trembling nerves at his command.
They knew that he was worthy to be feared,
And knelt unto in worship. Man knew this.—
But there's a holier chord in woman's heart,
A quick perception of the good, the pure,
The great, the spiritually beautiful,
Which, with the distant homage of the soul,
Blends the near worship of the ardent heart—
The heart, which asks no questions of the past,
Which knows no future, never dreams of self;
The present with the object it adores
Is its eternity. The heart is blind,
And deaf to all dictation, and doth cling
Unto its love, with a tenacity
Regardless of proud reason's scornful taunt,
Or cold derisive smile. The heart is strong,—
Its very weakness is to it a might,
A strength invincible. There cannot be
Of things created aught so beautiful
As a true woman's fervent, faithful heart,
In the devotion of its earnest love.
And these all loved the sufferer with a love
Warm as its fountain, as its object pure.
But wherefore were they there? They had no hope
That they could save the victim, or subtract
One drop of bitterness from that keen cup
Of mingled agony, drugged deep with death.
They could not give him ease, or life, or hope;
Then wherefore stood they agonizing there?
The heart constrained them. They could prove at least
Their love and steadfast confidence in him.
The thousands upon whom he had bestowed
Such precious gifts as healing to the sick,
Sight to the blind, and hearing to the deaf;
Strength to the feeble, to the crippled power
To walk and leap for joy; to the possess'd
Deliverance from their demons;—where were they?
Ay, where was Lazarus, and the widow's son,
Those whom his voice had called again from death?
We see them not.—Their faith may be as great
As woman's faith,—their love is not so strong.

The fervent-hearted Mary, kneeling there,
Pressed her pale forehead on the senseless wood,
And lo! there is a stain upon her brow,
A blood-drop from the feet, which she did long
To wash again with her warm flowing tears,
And dry with the soft tresses of her hair.
Which joyfully she would anoint again
With precious spikenard, and the healing balm.
Oh! how his words now tremble in her soul,
“She hath anointed me for burial.”
Ay—all his words were written in her heart,
And she had treasured them; as like a child
She sat at those dear feet. Ah, she is there,
The tender and the beautiful, whose soul,
In its young dreams of bliss, had sought to find
One worthy of its love, who would give back
The wealth of its affection—one to whom
She might unveil deep feelings' holy shrine
Fearless of sacrilege, whose ardent soul
Could understand and answer all her thoughts;
Whose nerves would thrill with hers at every touch
Of joy or sorrow; one whose breast to her
Should be a pillow, where no single thorn
Should wound her spirit or disturb her rest.
But she had chased a shadow, and had found
Those isles of beauty by her fancy spread
Upon the smiling ocean of delight,
Cold icebergs glitt'ring to the setting sun,
And floating on a frigid polar sea.
And they had lured her to the very brink
Of deep perdition. Then, with spirit stained,
Soul outraged, heart despoiled of half its wealth,
Like some young fledgeling bird, which spreads its wings
To seek the bright groves of the balmy south,
And meets the storm-winds of the equinox,
Which toss it at their pleasure, till its plumes
Are wet and ruffled, and its tender form
All bruised and weary; then with drooping head,
And pinions hanging listless by its sides,
It sits alone in some cold darksome nook,
And thinks of all the joys it left behind
For wild unreal hopes. So she looked back
Upon her wasted youth. Oh! mournfully
Lay scattered here and there along the path,
Amongst rank pois'nous weeds, the broken hopes
That she had chased, and caught, and thrown aside;
The withered buds, and severed leaves of flowers,
That she had worn on brow and breast awhile,
And thrown away with loathing. Fearful thoughts
Awoke within her then, blasphemous thoughts,
Of Him who had created this fair world,
With all its wealth of intellectual life,
And spirits longing for some real good
To fill their vast capacities for bliss,
For such unworthy ends; and she became
Reckless, and half a maniac, and pursued
The stream of bitter waters, which but mocked
And tantalized her burning heart and lips,
'Till her brain maddened.
Then the Crucified
Met her, and pitied, and with gentle voice
Reproved her wayward wanderings. Kindly then
He led her to the pure and pleasant spring
Of everlasting life. She knelt, and touched
The living waters, and her thirst was gone,
Her spirit healed, her heart made whole and pure,
Her brain so calm, that she sat meekly down
At her Deliverer's feet and drank his words,
Until the blessed balm of holy peace
Lay on her spirit, like the dew of heaven
On Sharon's velvet rose. And she loved much,
For she had sinned, and she had suffered much,
And had been freely, lovingly forgiven.—
Oh! she loved much! And therefore she was there
Beside the cross, to prove that earnest love
By fond devotion, fearless sympathy,
And faith that wavered not.
Beside her stood
The Magdalen.—Magnificent of form,
Of princely rank, sustained by princely wealth,
Was this devoted Mary; and her mind
Was capable of high and glorious things.
The fire of Genius burned in her dark eye,
Like the aurorean glory of the north
Deep in the midnight azure of the heavens.
Her brow was radiant with the august light
Of living Science, and her perfect lips
Were eloquent of most entrancing words,
Wildering the hearer with a height, a depth,
A poetry of such exalted thought
As made his spirit dizzy. Still, she yearned
For deeper draughts of wisdom, and resolved
To drain the goblet and possess the pearl
Of perfect knowledge, which for ever lies
Sparkling beneath the waters. She was one
To dare almighty vengeance, as did Eve
To taste forbidden knowledge.
All the lore
Of Nature, with her many-graded life,
Sentient, instinctive, intellectual,
Was unto her familiar as the path
O'er which she sported in her infancy.
And vegetable nature was to her
Like her own robe and maiden ornaments.
She knew how slept the life within the germ
Of seed, the most minute, a glorious life
Of might and beauty, carefully enclosed
In fitting envelope, and laid to sleep
Perchance for years, awaiting but the touch
Of quick'ning influence, to burst forth, and show
Its infant loveliness.—And how the earth
Gave substance to its form, and how it drank
The gaseous spirits of the living air,
And breathed the subtle light, acquiring thus
The fairest forms, and most entrancing hues.
She knew how fibres of peculiar form
Absorbed the mineral spirits of the earth,
Which, blending with the creatures of the air,
Became strong powers of healing, or of death
To animated things. But in her soul
The tree of knowledge blossomed rank with pride,
And promised fruits of power. Oh! she would climb
To heaven, and range the glowing firmament,
Walk the bright Zodiac, and grasp the stars,
Search out their natures, analyze their fires,
And find the secret influence which dwelt
In each peculiar star, and how it flowed
From its far fountain, to the pulsing heart
Of pregnant Nature.—She would find the powers
That govern all things. She would grasp the wand
Of sovereign Destiny. She would find out
How life is generated; whence the soul
Receives its parts and passions; how the mind
Is joined to matter. She would touch the spring
Which moves this vast machinery, from the globe
Of this great Earth down to the atom heart
Of the minutest insect. She would reach
The wondrous lever which has power to move
That active mystery, the human will.
She would unwind the mystic chain of Fate,
And penetrate the misty veil that lies
O'er all the future, and survey the path
Of destiny, down to the guarded gate
Of the eternal bourne. She would command
All spirits; she would know the height, and depth,
And breadth, of all the knowledge that men deem
Dark, magic, and forbidden. From height to height
Her daring spirit climbed the fearful steep,
Wreathing its garlands with the rarest buds
That bloom in reach of the adventurous mind,
Which may grasp all things—save Omnipotence.
But still she laid her spoils upon the shrine
Of pride and human glory, while the powers
And spirits of the universe obeyed
Her sovereign mandate. Adding strength to strength,
And wielding all the powers thus made her own,
At length she wakened demons, which refused
To yield obedience, or return again
To their fierce element. With horror then
She found herself in their infernal power
Condemned to torture, and all frenzied forms
Of agony, which their malevolence
And vengeance could inflict. Oh! terrible
Was her condition then. Yet still through all
She was the Magdalen, magnificent
Amid the writhings of her baffled pride,
The crushing tortures of her deep despair.
When those fierce demons, with their taunting eyes,
Wrung all her soul to madness, and shrieked forth
Their mocking laughter on the shuddering air,
And told of tortures more tremendous still,
Ay, past the pow'r of nature to conceive,
With which they would afflict her writhing soul
For ever and for ever;—while they mocked
They feared the mighty sceptre of her power,
And held her trembling, lest her peerless mind
Should break their burning shackles, and avenge
Itself for all its sufferings. Horrible
Were her fierce strivings, and the frenzied rage
Of her tormented spirit. Such was once
This proud exalted woman. She had climbed
Above the grade of human intellect,
Above the reach of human sympathy.
The soul of man did homage to her sway,
And spirits bowed before her, till her pride
Outgrew her power, and she became the slave
Of fiends, too fierce, and fearful, for the sway
Of her vast knowledge. Fearful fiends they were,
And fearful were her torments.
Now she stood
With folded arms, and brow bent meekly down
Beside the cross; and when from time to time
She raised her dark wet eyes, Oh! what a light
Of holy worship and adoring love
Lay deep within them. Though her Saviour hung
Upon that cross of torture, well she knew
That he was self-devoted; that no power
Of man could bind him, whom the elements
Did homage to; that devils had not strength
To baffle him, who by a word subdued
The mighty fiends that had possessed her soul.
She knew those fiends had scoffed at every power
Beneath the might of the Omnipotent,
And he had conquered them; not by deep spells
Or incantations,—he had merely said:
Depart! and they obey'd him. Surely then
He wielded the almighty power of God.
And she had faith in Him, which nought on earth
Or in the glorious spirit-land could shake.
So she stood meekly, calmly, by the cross,
With heart o'erflowing with its grateful love,
And waiting with a strong expectant hope
That he would triumph gloriously o'er all
The powers of wicked men, of death, and hell.

And there beside her, weeping on the ground
In all the deep abandonment of grief,
Was that same Mary, whom the angel hailed
As blessed amongst women. O how far
She seemed from blessed then. The dark red drops
Of wringing torture, falling one by one,
So heavily and slowly at her feet,
Seemed each to waste the being of her soul
With the dear sufferer's life. Yet there she sat,
Her woman heart, with yearning tenderness,
Drinking the bitterness of all the shame
And agony of him she loved so much.
Her mother-heart, to which his every sigh
Came like the wind to the Æolean harp,
Which, stirring thrillingly the sentient string,
Awakes a mournful melody of sound
Which voices all its breathings. Human love!
Can angels comprehend thy mysteries—
Thy hopes, for which man perils his soul's life;
The deep despair, from which he deems the grave,
Ay, hell itself, a refuge! The delights
Which mingle all that spirits know of bliss
With human nature's thrilling ecstacies!
And that word, mother! O it comprehends
The all of love, the all of suffering,
That thread their fibres through the universe.
As if the heart maternal were a point
In which all centred, and which answers back
If any, even the least of all, be stirred.
How throbbed that mother's heart beside the cross
On which its love, its hope, its pride, its faith,
Were languishing to death? A mother's hopes
Are holy, and are planted by the spring
Of life within her heart. Their tendrils cling
Around the purest fibres of her soul,
And earth has nothing great or beautiful
Which they embrace not, while the topmost buds
Are flashing in the radiant light of heaven.
But she had hopes such as no woman's heart,
Save hers, had dared to cherish. Hopes brought down
By God's own angel, from the throne of truth,
And planted in her heart. Hopes cherished there
By blessed men and women, on whose souls
The Holy Spirit shed prophetic light.
She knew his being was a mystery,
Accomplished by the Highest. She was sure
That he was the Messiah—promised long,
And wailed for by Israel. She believed
That he should “save his people from their sins,”
And sit upon his father David's throne,
A glorious king for ever. She had watched
The early dawning of his intellect,
And knew that all within his perfect form
Was holiness and beauty. She had marked
The truth and wisdom of the earliest words
That trembled on his lips. She had observed
The earnest spirit of benevolence
That shone in all his actions. She had kept
Within the treasury of her mother-heart
The records of his life, from that blest day
In which, as she was breathing unto God
The aspirations of her pure young heart,
For her afflicted people, as she knelt
Within her chamber, where the gathered flowers
Poured out their sweet perfume, an incense meet
To mingle with a pure young maiden's prayer;—
O are they not alike—the holy flowers
With breath of fragrance, and the gentle girl
With voice of earnest prayer? Oh beautiful,
And innocent of heart, was Mary then.
The angel of the human sympathies,
As yet, had never troubled the clear pool
Of her affections, where the holy heavens
Lay mirrored gloriously. She was all pure,
Trustful, and truthful. Never yet on earth
Was aught so beautiful as that fair child,
As with clasped hands, and head bowed meekly down,
She prayed for fallen Israel, and implored
Jehovah to fulfil his prophet's words,
And send the promised Saviour. Then there came
A voice of softest music, and the words,
“Hail! highly favoured!” thrilled her startled soul.

How throbbed the heart in her young bosom then,
With awe, and fear, and joyful gratitude!

And when she saw her son, at twelve years old,
Within the temple at Jerusalem,
Amongst th' assembled Doctors of the Law,
Not only understanding all their words,
But asking questions, with such depth of thought
As made them marvel—'twas a glorious sight
For that exulting mother, her young boy
Seated amongst those rev'rend white-haired men,
The nation's best and wisest; his fair brow
Raised with attention; his expressive eyes
Beaming and flashing with the spirit's light;
While his smooth cheek was eloquently flushed
With the heart's throbbings, and the radiant curls,
Thrown back from brow and temple, seemed a wreath
Of heavenly glory, brighter than the gold
That sheathed so sumptuously the sacred walls,
And formed with its exquisite ornaments
A background to the picture. Mary gazed
Upon that beautiful and august scene,
And her prophetic heart saw plainly there
The Immanuel of the better covenant,
Amongst the august representatives
Of the old law, of cold but gorgeous forms.
O, vividly appeared before her then,
In those old men, so gloriously arrayed,
So wise, so proud, and yet so near the grave,—
The Jewish church, just verging to its fall;—
While from its princely stock, a verdant branch,
The purer kingdom of that holy child
Should grow with fruits of peace and blessedness,
Fill all the earth, and blossom up to heaven,
And so endure through time and without end.

And she had gazed upon him, when his form
Had ripened into manhood; when he seemed
A being all too pure, too beautiful,
Too wise, too good, to dwell upon the earth.
She saw him when he sat upon the mount,
Surrounded by a mighty multitude,
Who gazed and listened with astonishment,
While from his lips, in glowing melody
Of perfect eloquence, flowed precepts pure
And beautiful as incense, wreathing up
From golden censer, in the holiest place.
Precepts of piety—of humble trust
And perfect faith in God—of tenderness,
Benevolence, and mercy—purity
Of heart, and word, and life. Of charity
And free forgiveness of all enemies.
Of love for bitter hatred, and good deeds
For all malicious evil. Earnest prayer
For those unhappy ones, whose souls were vexed
With gnawing envy, and the torturing rage
Of persecuting passions.—When he taught
That earnest, lofty, comprehensive prayer,
Gift of his love to man, which ever since
Has been a daily sacrifice to God,
From those who follow Jesus. Which to-day
Has risen up from myriad earnest hearts,
A cloud of incense, shadowing the world
With fragrant blessing. Certainly that prayer,
Breathed by humility, and winged with faith,
Must reach the throne of heaven. For God will hear
The prayer himself dictated, from the lips
Of his incarnate Word, with the command,
“When ye pray, say, Our Father.”
She had seen
His matchless form, surrounded by a sea
Of heaving bosoms, while with word of power
And touch omnipotent, he loosed the bonds
Of fierce diseases, of demoniac ire,
And dull infirmity; so that the sick
Sprang from their beds rejoicing, the possessed
Felt the return of sanctity and peace,
And looked up with delighted hope to heaven.
The lame stood up, and leaped, and walked, and ran,
With wonder and delight. The deaf stood mute
With rapture, while their grateful souls drank in
The harmony of sound, and tasted first
That sweetest melody, the human voice,
As loved ones spake unto them joyously,
And thanked the giver of such priceless gift.
The dumb poured out their gratitude in words
Of eloquent thanksgiving; and the blind—
How reeled their spirits, as they looked on earth,
With all its forms and hues of loveliness,
And majesty, and terror, in the light
Of the sublime blue ocean of wide space,
With its intensely glorious mariners.
But 'midst those scenes of rapture, while the healed
Knelt down and worshipped, or with selfish joy
Hurried away exulting, while glad friends
Clasped their restored with smiles, and tears, and shouts,
And grateful adoration, she had seen
The pale cold shrouded dead awake to life,
And cling with warm affection to the breast
Which swelled beneath the pressure, with a flood
Of almost insupportable delight.
Amid these scenes of triumph, still her eyes
Dwelt with a mother's earnest love and pride
Upon that beaming face, now eloquent
With such compassion as he needs must feel
Who knows the frailty, suffering, and wo,
Of weak humanity; now lighted up
With a serene authority; now raised
With pleading look to heaven; now terrible
With stern command; now fearful with reproof;
Now bright with approbation;—beautiful,
In all beyond description, or the power
Of pencil to delineate. Then she thought:
O nobly wilt thou fill King David's throne,
And sway the sceptre o'er a happy land,
Freed by thy wisdom, by thy power sustained,
And so established that it shall endure
For ever.—It was thus the angel said,
“Of his dominion there shall be no end.”

But now,—O now, he hung upon the cross,
Between two thieves; as if malicious hate
Would drug the cup of death with every pang
That man can suffer. Ah! those blessed feet,
To which the toilsome steeps of Judah's hills
Were all familiar ways, as patiently
He went from place to place, with precious gifts
For an ungrateful world; those beauteous feet,
Look how they quiver with the agony
That wrings the nerves, from where the rugged nails
Are rusting in their wounds. Those perfect hands,
So rich, so liberal of their priceless wealth;
Which never once withheld the precious boon
From suppliant creature; which were never raised
Except to scatter blessings; they are pierced,
And bear upon the rough transfixing nails
The languid body's weight.
Are all his deeds
Of mercy, all his precepts good, and wise,
And loyal, quite forgotten? Does no voice
In that vast concourse speak of his good deeds,
His blameless life, his perfect innocence?
Ah yes. The rulers hiss amongst the mob
In mocking tones of gratified revenge,—
“He saved others, but himself—himself
He cannot save.” And then they cried to him:
“If thou indeed art Christ, the Son of God,
The King of Israel, come down the cross,
And then we will believe.” He heeded not,—
His eyes were heavenward, and his trembling lips
Were full of blessings still.
Oh arrogant
And blind presumptuous man! If he who then
Could send one prayer to heaven, which should bring down
Ten legions of strong angels, prompt to act
At his command, possessing will and power
To execute whate'er he should require,—
If he, amidst those fearful agonies,
Had felt one throb of self within his heart,—
That heart, which shrined within its holy depths
The ruined myriads of the human race,
With love so strong, so warm, so wonderful,
That angels, with the highest seraphim
That burn with ardent worship, still bow down
Their radiant heads in wonder, and adore
Love, even to them incomprehensible,
Which held Immanuel on the cross that day—
Ay, taunters! if he had indeed come down,
And dashed that cup of torture from his lips,
Its bitterness had overwhelmed the world
With everlasting death and misery;
And ye would have believed, with such belief
As makes the devils tremble! He had power
To save himself—but 'twas his will of love
To save his torturers.
“Father!” he cried, “forgive them;
For they know not what they do.”
And one poor wretch, who languished at his side,
Said with derision, in the anguished tone
That struggled hoarsely from his guilty breast:
“If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.”
But there came no reply from that meek heart,
And his poor fellow-sufferer turned his face,
Ghastly with misery, and rebuked the wretch
For such unseasonable levity.
And then, with humble penitence and faith,
He said to Jesus, “Lord, remember me
When thou shalt reign in glory.” Unto him
There came an answer, O so full of love,
So overflowing with sustaining hope,—
“Thou shalt be with me, certainly, to-day
In Paradise.”
'Twas noontide, and the crowd
Grew faint beneath the fierce meridian sun,
Which aggravated to intensity
The thirst and fever of the crucified.
But lo! there comes a darkness o'er the earth,
As if the shade of the death-angel's wing
Lay heavily upon it. 'Tis high noon,
And yet the sun is hidden, and the chill
And blackness of deep midnight veils the world.
Cold horror filled all hearts, and silent fear
Lay on all spirits, like a shroud of ice,
And they crouched down, expectant, and afraid
Of some impending terror. Can it be
That nature is expiring with the life
Of him who said—I am the Son of God?
Lo! on that sullen stillness, came a voice
Of most intense and bitter agony,
As if a miserable universe
Were gathered in one heart, and its despair
Expressed by that one voice, which cried aloud:
Eloi! Eloi! Lama! Sabacthani!
A murmur of derision, like the hiss
Of fiendish serpents, answer'd from the gloom,
And all was still again. So still, so dark,
It seem'd that Nature held her breath, and hid
Her eyes from sight so dread. Three fearful hours
This heavy darkness lasted, and despair
Was gathering round all hearts her frigid pall,
When from the Sufferer on the cross there came
A voice so deep, so thrilling, that it seem'd
To startle earth and heaven, as piercingly
He utter'd: “It is finished!” and bow'd down
His mighty head in death.
One short quick breath
It seem'd that Nature drew, and then gave forth
A groan of mortal anguish. This strong earth,
Rock-built, and iron-sinew'd, groaned and shook
With horrible convulsion. Fearful chasms
Were open'd in her bosom. Mountain rocks
Rent from their bases, with the stunning shock
Of quick explosion, adding to the crash
Loud detonations. Palaces and towers
Shook like the summer blossoms in a storm;
The glorious temple of the Holy One—
That august pile of marble and pure gold—
Reeled from its deep foundations, and the veil
That closed the entrance of the holiest place
Was rent from top to bottom, as if God
Design'd no longer to conceal himself
In gorgeous myst'ry of imposing forms
And human workmanship. One piercing scream
From man, and beast, and bird, went quivering up,
Prolonging Nature's groan of agony,
And then dumb silence wrapp'd the world again.
The bold centurion of the Roman guard,
Who watch'd the sufferers on the cross that day,
Gave his confession to the listening world,
And thus proclaim'd his faith: Most certainly,
This was the Son of God.

O Mary, of the warm and tender heart!
How seem'd thy very soul to melt in tears,
As o'er this scene of sorrow, and the wreck
Of an astonished world, the sun look'd out,
And show'd that glorious form droop'd heavily,
The bright eyes dim, the perfect features fix'd
And seal'd with Death's cold signet. But her love
Is undiminished. He was innocent;
He spake the words, and work'd the works of God;
Heaven has attested it, and earth has borne
Audible evidence that he was true
And worthy of heart-worship. That cold form
Should be embalm'd with cost and pious care,
And honourably buried. And his name
Should live for ever. While the soul endures,
His deeds should be remember'd,—and his words
Are graven on the altar-piece of Truth,
And shall not be forgotten while the sun
And earth remain, or while intelligence
Is bodied in quick matter. Shame nor death
Could conquer in that trusting woman's heart
The strong devotion of adoring love,
Which dwelt with Memory on the blessed past,
And walk'd with Hope a bright futurity
Of blessed and eternal intercourse
And holy worship in the spirit-land,
Where sin and death come not.
Can tongue express
The mother's sufferings in those fearful hours
Of darkness, death, and horror? Now indeed
The sword pass'd through her soul. Where was her faith,
Her hope for erring Israel? They had thrown
Their Saviour from them. They had crucified
Their King, who would have saved them from their sins
And from oppression. They had cast away
Healing and honour, freedom, and the meed
Of an eternal kingdom. Now their fate
Was seal'd. They had rejected and despised
The King, whose coming they had look'd for long,
And now they were undone. With broken heart
She bow'd her head. She knew that God is wise
And merciful, but Israel was undone;—
Her Son is crucified—she hopes no more.

But Magdalen, her strong and trusting soul
Clings to its cherish'd hopes. She knew, she knew
That He was the Immanuel, who should live
And reign for ever. Heaven, in blackness veil'd,
Earth, groaning and convulsed, bear evidence
Of His divinity. She feels assured
That this is not the sequel, and looks up
To greet a glorious future.
Magdalen!
Strong was thy faith and great was its reward!
When drawn by faith and love at early morn
Into the garden of the sepulchre,
First of the sisterhood who came with myrrh
And all embalming spices to preserve
That form so dearly loved—the risen Lord,
In all the glory of immortal life,
But half reveal'd in morning's misty light,
Stood near thee, and inquired: “Why weepest thou?
Whom seekest thou?” Then, to thine earnest plea:
“If thou hast borne him hence, O tell me where
He lies, and I will take him now away;”
He merely answer'd: “Mary!” in that tone
So well remembered, and so dearly loved.
O what a thrill of deep ecstatic joy
Pervaded all thy being, and burst forth
In that one word, Rabboni! Then thy soul
Was fill'd with blissful triumphs. Christ, the Lord,
Had conquer'd all—even the cold still powers
Of shadowy Hades and the sepulchre.
Thou seest thy Lord triumphant, and thy soul
Drinks in the mystery of Almighty love,
The incarnation of th' eternal Word,
Why he was born, why he had lived, and died.
The book of prophecy is open now,
It is thy Lord of whom Isaiah sang:
“He was despised, rejected, intimate
With grief and sorrow. We hid as 'twere
Our faces from him. Surely he hath borne
Our bitter grief, and carried in his heart
Our heaviest sorrows; yet we blindly deem'd
That God had smitten and afflicted him.
For our transgressions he was wounded thus;
These bruises are for our iniquities;
On him was the chastisement of our peace;
And by his cruel stripes our wounds are healed.”
Yes, Mary, thou wert healed, thy soul was well,
And full of joy and glory. Magdalen!
Thy name became thee well. Magnificent
Thou wast in mind and person, and thy fame
Shall live throughout all ages. Ay, as long
As ransom'd souls adore th' Incarnate God.
Woman! There is a lesson for thee here;
Come now and let us scan it narrowly.
Our hearts are form'd for reverence, for love,
For hope, and strong confiding; and in these
We find our bliss, our honour, and our fame.
Our beauty perishes, our brightest gifts
Of genius but endure a little while;
At best, no longer than the hearts we love
May cherish our remembrance. Wisdom's lore
And all the wealth of learning is to us
A glittering and uneasy coronet,
Which keeps our temples from their longed-for rest,
And tempts the shaft of envy, and the pangs
Of venomous detraction; and too oft
Infects the heart with pride—a dire disease,
Which mildews all its beauty, all its worth,
And ends in shame and ruin. If our soul
Be strong and stern, to battle and endure,
And we attain the height, and write our name
On Fame's bright altar, lo! the wither'd flowers
Of feminine affection, and the buds
Of tenderness and beauty, that were crush'd
By our ambition, droop their mournful heads,
And half conceal the record of our name
And high achievements. Love, and love alone,
The humble, fervent love, which of itself
Is purity, and faith, and truth, and hope,
And strong endurance—this is woman's worth,
Her happiness, her fame, in earth and heaven.
It was not gold, or beauty, or the gems
Of intellectual riches, or the lore
Of treasured learning, or the magic might
Of mystic science—it was none of these,
And Mary Magdalen possess'd them all,
Which won her favour, happiness, or fame.
'Twas warm devoted love, and ardent faith,
Which filled her being full of happiness,
Which won for her the favour of the Lord,
Which brought her earliest to the sepulchre,
And made her with her sisters, living gems
On the black waste of man's depravity.
Which made their name a beautiful relief
Upon the record of the direst deed
That sin has goaded man to perpetrate.
That through all ages, while the faltering tongue
Of man or angel shall recount, or read,
The story of the fearful sacrifice
That made atonement for a world of sin,
Their name shall mingle in the mournful strain
Its tone of sweetly soothing melody.
Yes, woman's love is the alone bright spot
In all that horrid story. Woman's love—
The soul of her religion—the deep life
Of faith and hope within her;—this it was,
With its sustaining strength and holy zeal,
Which bound these blessed Mary's to their Lord;
Which made them follow him from place to place,
Like angels, ministering to all his wants;
Which kept them agonizing at his cross,
And led them early to the sepulchre;
Which gave them first to greet a risen God,
And taste the purest, most exalted joy,
That ever trembled through the human heart;
And wrote their name upon a glorious page,
To live as long as God himself endures.