Soft eve comes down upon her couch of cloud,
The shadows gather round the dreams of night;
With woeful psalms Jerusalem is loud,
And far and near the funeral torch is bright;
Even the dull feet of age have sought the crowd
To watch, with anxious eyes, a shuddering sight;
From yonder home a silent Corpse they bear,
The dead, the beautiful, the cold, the fair.
They wail for One — Holiest of all her race —
For Mary, Maiden-Mother of the Lord;
The name that, graven in stars, the angels trace,
Hallowed in heaven, and on earth adored:
What eyes shall yet be lifted to that face,
What voices at those feet one day be poured,
When angel-harps the Queen of Heaven declare,
And the Son listens to his Mother's prayer.
Holy and full of heaven her race was run,
Her soul made haste to meet her glorious Child;
He, when the rest had fled, besought Saint John
To choose for his own Mother Mary mild.
Yea, his last thought was hers, when the sad sun
Grew dark; and earthquake, fierce and wild,
Rent shuddering Calvary: and air and sky
Shook to behold the hosts of heaven pass by.
They glide like shadows, silent, dim and pale;
Kinsfolk and strangers throng the peopled street;
Forth at the gate the minstrel leads the wail;
And on the mourners move with lingering feet.
Hark, what stern voices rise; what sounds prevail;
A cry, as when in battle foemen meet:
A circumcised Jew — oh, deed of fear —
Foamed at the Dead, and smote and that awful bier.
But lo, a doom. That fierce and lifted hand
Fell, quivering fell, severed by touch unseen;
The multitude are mute: they understand
That girded angels guard the sacred scene;
But he, the wretch, clings to that funeral band
With jabbering cry, and rent and tortured mien;
Low at the rested bier he bends, and there
Shrieks to the Merciful a loud and penitent prayer.
God heard him: God beheld the gushing tear:
His heart was visible to the Eyes divine:
The deep thoughts of his quivering soul were clear
As jewels, 'mid the earthquake, in the mine;
He lifts his arms once more above the bier,
And clothed with flesh from heaven, new fingers shine;
He knelt a Hebrew foe, in deed and word —
He rose a Christian man, disciple of the Lord.
In sad Gethsemani, in a chosen grave,
For a set time, they laid their blessed Dead:
There, lilies loved to bloom and boughs to wave
And many a murmured orison was said:
There, burned the nightly star, whose radiance gave
Sign of the sepulchre to Christian tread;
There too, the chanted psalm was heard at eve,
When harps of heaven were touched, and angels came to grieve.
The shadows gather round the dreams of night;
With woeful psalms Jerusalem is loud,
And far and near the funeral torch is bright;
Even the dull feet of age have sought the crowd
To watch, with anxious eyes, a shuddering sight;
From yonder home a silent Corpse they bear,
The dead, the beautiful, the cold, the fair.
They wail for One — Holiest of all her race —
For Mary, Maiden-Mother of the Lord;
The name that, graven in stars, the angels trace,
Hallowed in heaven, and on earth adored:
What eyes shall yet be lifted to that face,
What voices at those feet one day be poured,
When angel-harps the Queen of Heaven declare,
And the Son listens to his Mother's prayer.
Holy and full of heaven her race was run,
Her soul made haste to meet her glorious Child;
He, when the rest had fled, besought Saint John
To choose for his own Mother Mary mild.
Yea, his last thought was hers, when the sad sun
Grew dark; and earthquake, fierce and wild,
Rent shuddering Calvary: and air and sky
Shook to behold the hosts of heaven pass by.
They glide like shadows, silent, dim and pale;
Kinsfolk and strangers throng the peopled street;
Forth at the gate the minstrel leads the wail;
And on the mourners move with lingering feet.
Hark, what stern voices rise; what sounds prevail;
A cry, as when in battle foemen meet:
A circumcised Jew — oh, deed of fear —
Foamed at the Dead, and smote and that awful bier.
But lo, a doom. That fierce and lifted hand
Fell, quivering fell, severed by touch unseen;
The multitude are mute: they understand
That girded angels guard the sacred scene;
But he, the wretch, clings to that funeral band
With jabbering cry, and rent and tortured mien;
Low at the rested bier he bends, and there
Shrieks to the Merciful a loud and penitent prayer.
God heard him: God beheld the gushing tear:
His heart was visible to the Eyes divine:
The deep thoughts of his quivering soul were clear
As jewels, 'mid the earthquake, in the mine;
He lifts his arms once more above the bier,
And clothed with flesh from heaven, new fingers shine;
He knelt a Hebrew foe, in deed and word —
He rose a Christian man, disciple of the Lord.
In sad Gethsemani, in a chosen grave,
For a set time, they laid their blessed Dead:
There, lilies loved to bloom and boughs to wave
And many a murmured orison was said:
There, burned the nightly star, whose radiance gave
Sign of the sepulchre to Christian tread;
There too, the chanted psalm was heard at eve,
When harps of heaven were touched, and angels came to grieve.