University of Virginia Library

With firm-pressed lips, and clenchèd hands she sat,
Her eyes now kindling with the fire of hell,
Now wildly vacant; and with sudden burst,
As from a trance awakening, she would start,
And some loud chant, a strain of happier days,
Wild echoes of an ancient melody,
Would pass her pallid lips; and oft she rent
The calm night air with fierce and fitful scream,
As one in anguish. Then, for many days,
The trance returning, limbs as marble stiff,
The sense benumbed, she seemed as one half-dead;
And not the warming clasp of mother's arm,
Nor the hot falling rain of mother's tears,
Nor childhood's sunny smile, nor laughing song
Could rouse her into life of womanhood.
Her hair that once hung down in raven folds,
O'er marble brow, in crispèd, wavy curls,
While golden circlet shone upon its dark,
An aureole of brightness, and men said,
In very love of beauty, as she passed,
“Behold, our Miriam with the braided locks!”—
That hair now swept in wild disorder down,
And never touch of woman's loving hand
Brought back the old array, but fingers fierce
Tore through it, flung it to the ruthless winds
In sore despair, as though the burning heat
Of brow and brain had made intolerable
That veil of woman's glory.

How it came
Men knew not. Not for her had been the strife
With adverse fortune, and the world's rough blasts
Had spared her. Heiress of her father's house,
She dwelt at ease, and in the city's street
Her home rose high, and spread its courtyard wide,
Where pleasant fountains murmured in the shade,
And clustering vine hung purpling on the wall,
And rose of Sharon shed its rich perfume,
And fair pomegranates bore their ruby gems
Deep set in emerald brightness. Many friends
Were hers, the elders of the house of God,
The Rabbis, and the Levites, and the Priests,
And sang her praise. Nor had she known the shame
Of those who cast the pearl of life away
For swine to tread on. Never lip of scorn
Had breathed her name in mocker's scurril jest,
Nor slanderer's whisper touched her fair repute
Of maiden pureness. Clad in chastity,
Her soul was white from all the stain of sense,
Her bosom heaved not with the sighs of love;
And youth that wooed with eager ecstasy,
And age that lavished gifts of gold and gems,
Won the same answer, “They were nought to her.”

And so the years went on; and then there came
A dull gray blight upon the roseate dawn,
And all the flowers, the fair, fresh flowers of youth,
Were withered, and the joy of life was gone.
First, wayward answers, petulant reproach,
The smartings of a soul that knows not peace,
The sense of some vast gulf, that, opening wide,
Had given a vision of the central void,
And nether fires that burn perpetually,
While she, half spell-bound, half in apathy,
Was borne along, she knew not where or how,
In one great terror. Night that comes to all,
And brings soft influence from the angel sleep
To quicken weary souls to stronger life,
Brought none to her. The long, long hours passed by,
And still her eyes glared on with fitful flash;
And spectral horrors of earth's monstrous growths,
Dim forms gigantic of the ghastly dead,
These moved before her, now in slow array,
And now in quickest onset, like the rush
Of armies to the battle, and the sun
Looked in upon that vigil of affright,
And found her waking still, her every nerve
Wrought to the pitch of keenest agony,
Not weeping, (that refreshment of the soul
Had not been granted,) but with moans and shrieks
Making the air re-echo. So she loathed
Her life, and men shrank from her in their fear;
“Lo! Miriam with the braided locks is mad;
Seven demons hold her.”

And ere long one came
From Gadara, who through all Gennesareth's coasts
Had made men quail, and women shriek and shrink;
Naked, and foul, and frenzied,—in the tombs,
The dwelling-place of foul and festering death,
He chose his home, and, howling in despair,
Rending the air with curses, hating men
His brothers, hating God, his Father, more,
He burst his chains, as he of Zorah tore
Of old the green withs of the Philistines,
And smote down those that bound him. Thus for years.
His life had passed, but now with altered mien,
Clothed, and in calmness came he, telling all
Of One who freed him from that thraldom vile,
And bade his legion-foes depart, and vex
His soul no longer. And he felt them go;
The war was over, and the peace was come,
No more two voices spoke within his heart,
Two promptings tore the miserable life,
One bidding curse and hate, blaspheme and die,
And one that craved for kindly look of love,
Friend's touch, and brother's help. The spell was gone,
And all the soul went forth towards its Lord,
And fain had kept that pitying glance in sight,
And gained the guidance of that steadfast hand,
And with Him journeyed over hill and lake.
It might not be. The soul so long convulsed,
Still heaving with the earthquake and the storm,
Had need of rest, had need of earthly friends,
To knit once more the broken threads of life;
And o'er the parched and howling wilderness
Must fall the dew of daily charities,
Till once again the soft green grass should spring,
And gladden in the shining after rain.
And so among the people of his home
He came and dwelt, and told the wondrous tale,
And then the marvel spread. From Gerasa,
Through Dalmanutha, yea, through all the coasts
Where boats of fishers plied from beach to beach,
From green Bethsaida to Capernaum's bay,
It came at last to Magdala. They sent
To ask the Healer, and the Healer came;
No Rabbi with his spells of mystic sound,
No wandering charmer, skilled in ancient lore,
Egypt's dark rites, or seal of Solomon,
But One whose pure and perfect sinlessness
Drew with the power of wondrous sympathy
All goodness to itself, gave life to germs
Long buried deep below the sand of years,
Poured in the oil that fed the slumbering flame,
Bound up the reed the world had harshly bruised,
And gave the captive freedom. So He came,
And Miriam heard the word that bade her live,
Break from her fetters, trample on the thoughts,
Half demon-like, half-brutal, that had kept
Her soul in thraldom; and, the dark hour past,
She rose to higher life, serener thoughts.
She, too, would follow where the Master led,
Up the steep hill, or on the dusty way,
In scorching heat, or winter's evening chill,
Her life's one thought to give Him of His own,
The true thank-offering of a life restored
To Him, the great Restorer.

So they went,
That band of sisters. One had lived in courts,
Had seen the Tetrarch's proud magnificence,
Had heard the summons of the Baptist's voice
Strike terror and amazement; one had dwelt
(Salome, mother of the fiery ones,
The sons of thunder) by Gennesareth's shore;
And each her story had to tell of love,
And might, and pity, from the Lord of life,
The Healer of the body and the soul;
And Miriam joined that goodly company,
Her heart being one with theirs. At early morn,
Erc yet the dew had risen in fragrant steam,
They rose from slumber, prayed, and journeyed forth,
Still keeping in the rear, while vanward marched
The Master and His followers. Should it chance
He stopped to speak to all the wondering crowd,
And preach the tidings of good news from God,
Then they, in meekest reverence, lingered round
The utmost margin of the encircling throng,
And heard rejoicing. When the day was done,
They onward sped to nearest village-town,
Prepared the chamber, spread the simple meal,
And washed the feet that all day long had toiled
O'er the hot pathway, through the scorching dust.
And soon the number grew. There came to them
Full many a Galilean maid or wife,
Owning or son or brother in the Twelve,
Now pressing on to keep the Paschal feast,
And wait the Kingdom's glory. She was there,
Round whom there lingered yet the virgin's grace,
The mother's chastened meekness; and to her,
As namesake, helper, friend, the Magdalene
Turned with the love that worships. Many years
Might lie between them; one was worn and gray,
With grief yet more than age, and one still fair
In all the prime of full-grown womanhood;
And yet each loved the other: both were joined
In the strong band of all-absorbing love
For One above them both. As daughter true,
With loving mother, so they journeyed forth,
And still at morn and eve they prayed their prayer,
Or stood behind the carvèd lattice-work,
At Sabbath morn in village synagogue,
With hearts that beat together, and they found
The self-same helper. He, whom most of all
The Master loved, Jochanan, from the heights
Of green Bethsaida, by Gennesareth,
Was truest friend to both, would bring them word
How best to journey, how escape the throng
Of gathering foes, how keep their tranquil life
In midst of all confusion. And to him
They gave a mother's and a sister's love;
Rejoiced in soul when he, at even-tide,
The day's work done, would tell them golden words
Fresh dropt from holiest lips—the mystic speech
Of parables and proverbs, priceless pearls,
For which the seekers had to search full hard,
And plunge in deepest waters—these he brought,
That they might share his joy, when truths of God,
Long hidden, from behind the veil shone forth,
The orient dawning of the perfect day.
Glad welcome had they from the sisters twain,
(Another Miriam one,) whom Bethany
Beheld with wonder, whom the Master loved,
Whose brother, Eleazar, He had raised
From out his four days' sleep. Nor did there fail
That sister band far other fellowship;
One came among them, bowed with foulest shame,
Who, in the dark, wide places of the streets
Had walked with face unveiled and pencilled brows;
But she, too, loved the Teacher who had shown
Divinest pity, manliest tenderness,
And lavishing the heaped-up gains of years,
The wages of the sin that now she loathed,
On costliest unguent in its crystal vase,
She poured it out upon the Lord's dear feet,
While thickly fell the shower of blinding tears,
And golden hair, down dropping like a cloud,
Veiled her in sunlight from the eyes of scorn.
Much had she sinned, much also had she loved,
And Miriam's heart clave to her, pitying
The shame she had not known. Of all the band
No two were closer bound in sisterhood
Than they, the sinner and the Magdalene.

So went they day by day, as darker grew
The storms around their Master, till at last
They joined the throng of that great Paschal-tide,
Crossed from the East, and o'er the gleaming ford,
Where Jordan flows by many a feathery grove,
Came to the town of palm-trees, toiled along
The hot steep road to where the pathway climbs
The eastern slope of hoary Olivet,
And rested in Bethania. Then a feast,
A gathering of the poor, the maimed, the halt,
The pilgrim and the stranger; once again
The fragrant breaking of the spikenard vase,
(That Miriam hearing from the friends who came,
Of what the sinner did in Simon's house,)
And then the morn broke brightly. So they went,
Disciples, people, all, a glorious train,
And He, the Master, rode, a Prince of Peace,
In kingly state towards Jerusalem.
No battle of confusèd noise was there,
Nor garments rolled in blood no chariot bore
The conquering hero through the heaps of slain,
But loud hosannas rent the noon-tide air,
And costly garments hid the whitening dust,
And waving branches of the fresh green palm
Smote off the summer-flies, or, cast to earth,
Made a bright path for that triumphant tread.
They saw it in the distance, all the band
Of those true sisters, and their women's hearts
Leapt up for joy, for now they deemed the hour,
Long waited for, had come, and Israel's hopes
Had gained their high fulfilment. Now the King
(So dreamt the Maiden-mother of her son,
Not knowing that the sword was near her heart)
Would claim the glory of His father's throne,
Feed with full hand the hungry and the poor,
And send the rich back empty. And the twain,
The sinner and the Magdalene, they joyed
To think that they should as His handmaids serve,
Where gilded columns rise from cedarn floors
In Zion's loftiest palace.

Soon the dream
Was past, and lo! the conquest had not come;
And they as women, keeping to the house,
But little knew. They heard of gathering crowds
That filled the gates of all the Temple's courts;
And whispers ran, the priests in secret met
Had planned His death, yet fain must wait awhile,
In very fear of that great multitude
Who held Him as a prophet. So the days
Ran on; the holy Paschal feast was o'er,
And on the morn that followed, ere the sun
Looked down upon the fig-tree and the vine,
They heard the rumour, “Lo! the deed is done;
Among the Twelve was one a traitor found,
And all the rest forsook Him.” Then there came
The hasty Court, the sentence, and the scourge,
The mockery, and, ere yet the noontide heat
Had come, the sad, slow march to Golgotha.
And as He passed, they wept Him and bewailed,
They, and those daughters of Jerusalem,
Who counted Israel's consolation near,
And now found shame and darkness. And He looked
In pity on them, bade them weep no more
For Him, but for themselves, their children dear,
The city which their hearts exulted in.
“If they, our conquerors, on the green tree wreak
Such vengeance; if the blameless Prophet bear
This cross, what depth of suffering fathomless
Shall come upon my people, when the tree,
Barren, and dry, and withered, to the axe
Shall yield itself a victim!” Then a pause,
A gathering gloom, and then from out the crowd
They slipped, and followed where the crosses stood,
The mourning mother and the Magdalene;
And with them that disciple whom He loved,
Whose face, well-known to all the priestly throng,
Won silent pity, and a shelter gave
Against all scorn and outrage. So they went,
And stood, and spake not, hand close clasped in hand,
Noting each pulse of quivering agony,
Catching each word that dropped from parchèd lips,
Till all was over. Then they turned away,
Watched the pale form laid gently in the tomb;
And ere the sun had crimsoned all the west,
And Sabbath stillness fell upon the streets,
They bought their spices. Now her time was come;
First one and then another, in His life,
Had bought their unguents, precious as the oil
Which poured down Aaron's ephod to his skirts,
With kingly perfume, and on head and feet
Had lavished all; but now when life was gone,
When never more should glance of His wake up
The soul within her, nor His gentle voice,
Like soft, sweet music, fall upon her heart,
When neither hope of favour nor of praise—
The praise of men beholding her great love,
The praise of Him on whom the love was spent—
Could enter in, but love and love alone,
The one strong master-passion of her soul,
Sway all the tides of being,—now she too
Would do her service, pour the liquid nard
Upon the dead, cold limbs, and wrap them round
In precious spice, and Egypt's finest lawn.
And so they rested, she and that true band
Of chosen sisters, all the Sabbath-day,
And, half for fear, and half for woe, stirred not
From out that upper chamber, where they dwelt,
To temple-service at the hour of prayer,
Where in the women's court, the anthems rise
Clear, high, and full, and mingle with the chants
Of priests and Levites; nor, behind the screen,
Stood up to pray where Galileans met
In that, the pilgrims' synagogue; but still
From morn to eve they sat, and wept, and prayed,
As widowed mother weeping for her son,
As sisters who lament a brother lost,
As true disciples mourning for their Lord.
And Miriam, most of all, plunged deep in woe,
As though all waves and storms swept over her,
With brows close knit, and tight-clenched lips sat there,
O'er one thought brooding, that her Lord was gone,
On one hope feeding, that her hands should give
That Lord a kingly burial. So they sat,
Until the moon was shining in the East,
And Sabbath rest was ended; and they drank,
As mourners drink at funerals of the dead,
One cup of wine in memory of their Lord,
And ate their bread, half-choked with stifled sobs;
And then through all the hours of eventide
They toiled, and waited till the East was gray,
And roseate flush upon the furthest cloud
Proclaimed the day had risen. Then they went,
(Not all, for she, the mourning mother, stayed,
In silent sorrow, not unmixed with hope,)
And Miriam with them, where in Joseph's tomb
Their Lord was laid. Through streets that still were dumb,
No feet yet stirring, to the northern gate,
Through terraced garden, where the air was cool
With plashing fountains, and the breath of flowers
Was fresh and sweet, as was the breeze of old
In Eden's groves; and then before the tomb
They stood, where, hollowed in the fresh-hewn rock,
The cave oped wide its mouth. And lo! the stone,
Of which their hearts had nourished anxious fears,
So far beyond their woman's strength to move.
Was rolled aside. The keepers all were fled
The grave was empty, grave-clothes laid aside,
And two bright forms, arrayed in garments white,
Like those young priests who in the Temple courts
Wave incense, sat within, and spake to them;
“Why seek ye here the living with the dead?
Your Lord is risen.” Others heard the words,
And ran for joy, full-flushed and eager joy,
To tell their friends and brothers. But for her,
For Miriam, who through all the weary night
Had kept her watch, was neither joy nor faith;
She stood as one bewildered, let them pass,
Her friends and sisters, lingered there alone,
Her eyes still fixed upon the emptied cave;
And all the glory of those heavenly ones,
That vision of the angels, seemed a dream
That vanishes on waking. “Could this be
And was she robbed of love's last ministry,
The homage upon which her heart was set,
The all that still was left her in her life?”
(And so, as though a gap were opening wide
Beneath her feet in darkness of the night,
And once again she trembled o'er the pit,)
She stood as in the woe of former days,
In blank amazement; and her only speech
Was this, that He, her dearest Lord, was gone,
And where He was she knew not; and the sky
Of life was dark, and yet a little while,
And all the madness, all the fierce despair,
Had come on her once more; when lo! a voice,
“Why weepest thou, O woman?” and she turned,
Just waking from her trance, with eager quest,
And spoke the passionate craving of her heart;
“My Lord is gone. Ah, sir! and can'st thou tell
Where they have laid Him?” And the answer came
In voice as clear and pitying, yet as strong
As when, of old, it broke the demon's spell,
And in her home, in pleasant Magdala,
Had called her by her name. And then once more
The spell was broken. Now the veil was rent
Which kept her from the knowledge of her Lord;
And with one cry, loud, eager, passionate,
“Rabboni, O my Master!” falling down
In love adoring, to that Master's feet
She clung in rapture. Yet it might not last,
That high-wrought mood of purest ecstasy;
That touch had something of impassioned fear,
Had something of the love that cleaves to earth;
And souls that seek for converse with their Lord
Must calmer grow, and breathe in gentler strain
The softer music of a soul at peace;
Must still endure, although the skies be dark,
As seeing, through the shadows of the night,
His glory who remains invisible.
And so still pitying, still with gentlest words,
He put her from him, bade her hear and tell,
That, though He tarried yet a little while,
The time was short, and then His hour would come,
When He, raised high above the heaven of stars,
Should show Himself no more; and then her love
Might cling in rapture to the Eternal Arm,
Might prostrate lie before His feet who walks
Upon the mighty waters. Now her task
Must be to spread the tidings of great joy,
Proclaiming “Christ is risen.”

So she went;
And more we know not. Seen a few short hours
In clearest sunlight, then in shadow deep
Her life passed on. But this at least we know,
That He who loved loves even to the end,
And she had learnt the lesson that He taught;
And when with earthly eyes she gazed no more,
She saw, as though the heavens were opened wide,
And knew Him present, when with two or three
She prayed, or sang His praises; felt Him near,
When on the sick she poured the healing oil,
Or washed the feet of pilgrims. So she lived,
Still joined in bands of closest sisterhood;
And when at last life's little span was o'er,
Or in the graves that border Kedron's vale,
Or by the walls of ancient Magdala,
Or on far shores beyond the glittering sea,
They laid her to her rest, and o'er her tomb,
Graved on the rock, they wrote, “She sleeps at peace.”