CXXV.THE EASTER GUEST.
I
Dear Mother! from the sacred cell
Where the departed spirits dwell,
Mysteriously blest,
A gentle shadow, by my side
For one whole day at Easter-tide,
Thou dost with thy poor orphan bide,
A true though speechless Guest.
II
Dear Shade! at dawn thou dost not come,
The hour when Jesus from the Tomb
Went in the twilight gray:
Thou comest not at sunrise fair,
And, when to breathe bright Easter air
I leave my bed, thou art not there,—
Thou hast not found the way.
III
Softly, sweet Presence! dost thou steal
To me, when all the people kneel
With trembling hearts prepared;
When, on the Mysteries intent,
We see the veil between us rent,
Shewing the way that Jesus went,—
Then is thy house unbarred.
IV
And straightway thou art at my side,
As when, one long past Easter-tide
I knelt, a cowering boy,
And thou my little hands didst bare,
Taking the gloves which I did wear,
Trembling, entranced, oblivious there
With awe, deep awe and joy.
V
Dear Mother! through the long, long year
I never think without a tear
Of thee so soon departed;
And, weariest penance! all the things
Which memory from her storehouse brings
Are seeds of bitter thought, and stings
Which keep me broken-hearted.
VI
I mark thy sadly wondering look,
When in a passion-fit I spoke
Harsh words into thine ears;
When thou, a sufferer on life's brink,
Waitedst to weep, till thou didst think
I should not see thy spirit drink
Its greedy draught of tears.
VII
O Mother! Mother! with what pain
I crave thy presence back again
Thy pardon so to get!
For mine is now a growing sorrow,
Which doth, alas! for ever borrow
From every change and every morrow
New sources of regret.
VIII
But this one day when thou hast come
From out thy spiritual home,
Thine Easter's endless feast,
What other feelings has thou brought!
With what a cheering softness fraught!
What store, good store, of filial thought
Hath come with thee, dear Guest!
IX
From out thy presence thou dost pour
A healing quiet on my sore,
The calm of pardon won,
And a bright cloud of memories
Doth from the genial past arise,
Bringing sweet trouble in my eyes,
From thoughts of duty done.
X
Mother! the long, long year I mourn;
But thy mute presence is an urn,
Replenished from above,
Whence yearly there distils a dower
Of deep absolving peace, a shower
Of benediction,—right and power
For penitential love.
