LO, from Thy Father’s bosom Thou dost sigh;Deep to Thy restlessness His ear is bent:—“Father, the Paraclete is sent,Wrapt in a foaming wind He passeth by.Behold, men’s hearts are shaken—I must die:Sure as a star within the firmamentMust be my dying: lo, my wood is rent,My cross is sunken! Father, I must die!”Lo, how God loveth us, He looseth hold....His Son is back among us, with His own,And craving at our hands an altar-stone.Thereon, a victim, meek He takes his place;And, while to offer Him His priests make bold,He looketh upward to His Father’s Face.
LO, from Thy Father’s bosom Thou dost sigh;Deep to Thy restlessness His ear is bent:—“Father, the Paraclete is sent,Wrapt in a foaming wind He passeth by.Behold, men’s hearts are shaken—I must die:Sure as a star within the firmamentMust be my dying: lo, my wood is rent,My cross is sunken! Father, I must die!”Lo, how God loveth us, He looseth hold....His Son is back among us, with His own,And craving at our hands an altar-stone.Thereon, a victim, meek He takes his place;And, while to offer Him His priests make bold,He looketh upward to His Father’s Face.
LO, from Thy Father’s bosom Thou dost sigh;Deep to Thy restlessness His ear is bent:—“Father, the Paraclete is sent,Wrapt in a foaming wind He passeth by.Behold, men’s hearts are shaken—I must die:Sure as a star within the firmamentMust be my dying: lo, my wood is rent,My cross is sunken! Father, I must die!”Lo, how God loveth us, He looseth hold....His Son is back among us, with His own,And craving at our hands an altar-stone.Thereon, a victim, meek He takes his place;And, while to offer Him His priests make bold,He looketh upward to His Father’s Face.
GATHER, gather,Drawn by the Father,Drawn to the dear procession of His Son!They are bearing His Body.... RunTo the Well-Belovèd! Haste to Him,Who down the street passeth secretly,Adorned with Seraphim,Still as the blooms of an apple-tree.
GATHER, gather,Drawn by the Father,Drawn to the dear procession of His Son!They are bearing His Body.... RunTo the Well-Belovèd! Haste to Him,Who down the street passeth secretly,Adorned with Seraphim,Still as the blooms of an apple-tree.
GATHER, gather,Drawn by the Father,Drawn to the dear procession of His Son!They are bearing His Body.... RunTo the Well-Belovèd! Haste to Him,Who down the street passeth secretly,Adorned with Seraphim,Still as the blooms of an apple-tree.
Gather, gather,Drawn by the Father!Not now He dwelleth in the Virgin’s womb:In the harvests He hath His room;From the lovely vintage, from the wheat,From the harvests that we this year have grown,He giveth us His flesh to eat,And in very substance makes us His own.
Gather, gather,Drawn by the Father!Not now He dwelleth in the Virgin’s womb:In the harvests He hath His room;From the lovely vintage, from the wheat,From the harvests that we this year have grown,He giveth us His flesh to eat,And in very substance makes us His own.
Gather, gather,Drawn by the Father!Not now He dwelleth in the Virgin’s womb:In the harvests He hath His room;From the lovely vintage, from the wheat,From the harvests that we this year have grown,He giveth us His flesh to eat,And in very substance makes us His own.
Gather, gather,Drawn by the Father!The sun is down, it is the sundown hour.He, who set the fair sun to flower,And the stars to rise and fall—Kneel, and your garments before Him spread!Kneel, He loveth us all;He is come in the breaking of Bread.
Gather, gather,Drawn by the Father!The sun is down, it is the sundown hour.He, who set the fair sun to flower,And the stars to rise and fall—Kneel, and your garments before Him spread!Kneel, He loveth us all;He is come in the breaking of Bread.
Gather, gather,Drawn by the Father!The sun is down, it is the sundown hour.He, who set the fair sun to flower,And the stars to rise and fall—Kneel, and your garments before Him spread!Kneel, He loveth us all;He is come in the breaking of Bread.
Gather, gather(Drawn by the Father),To our God who is shown to us so mild,Borne in our midst, a child!He is King and with an orb so small:And not a word will He say,Nor on the Angels call,Though we trample Him down on the way.On the Holy Angels He will not call....Oh, guard Him with breasts impregnable!Sept. 25-26, 1908
Gather, gather(Drawn by the Father),To our God who is shown to us so mild,Borne in our midst, a child!He is King and with an orb so small:And not a word will He say,Nor on the Angels call,Though we trample Him down on the way.On the Holy Angels He will not call....Oh, guard Him with breasts impregnable!Sept. 25-26, 1908
Gather, gather(Drawn by the Father),To our God who is shown to us so mild,Borne in our midst, a child!He is King and with an orb so small:And not a word will He say,Nor on the Angels call,Though we trample Him down on the way.On the Holy Angels He will not call....Oh, guard Him with breasts impregnable!
Sept. 25-26, 1908
DOVE of the Holy Dove,His one, His mate—One art thou, single in thy mortal stateTo be the chosen of Love,His one, white Dove,For whom He left His place in Trinity,Letting His pinions fallLow to the earth, that His great power might beAround thee, nor appal,But, soft in singleness of strength, might bringThe glory of the Father and the SonTo thee, the chosen One,Amid the sounding clash of each vast wing.His Perfect, thou art madeImmaculate;For thou with dovelike whiteness must elateThat Heavenly Spouse arrayed,Beyond all shade,In whiteness of the Godhead of God’s throne,That loves in utter whiteFrom Person unto Person, and aloneHad dwelt in His pure light,Until one day the Holy Dove was sentTo Thee, O Mary, thee, O Dove on earth,And God the Son had birthOf thee, Perfection of thy God’s intent.
DOVE of the Holy Dove,His one, His mate—One art thou, single in thy mortal stateTo be the chosen of Love,His one, white Dove,For whom He left His place in Trinity,Letting His pinions fallLow to the earth, that His great power might beAround thee, nor appal,But, soft in singleness of strength, might bringThe glory of the Father and the SonTo thee, the chosen One,Amid the sounding clash of each vast wing.His Perfect, thou art madeImmaculate;For thou with dovelike whiteness must elateThat Heavenly Spouse arrayed,Beyond all shade,In whiteness of the Godhead of God’s throne,That loves in utter whiteFrom Person unto Person, and aloneHad dwelt in His pure light,Until one day the Holy Dove was sentTo Thee, O Mary, thee, O Dove on earth,And God the Son had birthOf thee, Perfection of thy God’s intent.
DOVE of the Holy Dove,His one, His mate—One art thou, single in thy mortal stateTo be the chosen of Love,His one, white Dove,For whom He left His place in Trinity,Letting His pinions fallLow to the earth, that His great power might beAround thee, nor appal,But, soft in singleness of strength, might bringThe glory of the Father and the SonTo thee, the chosen One,Amid the sounding clash of each vast wing.
His Perfect, thou art madeImmaculate;For thou with dovelike whiteness must elateThat Heavenly Spouse arrayed,Beyond all shade,In whiteness of the Godhead of God’s throne,That loves in utter whiteFrom Person unto Person, and aloneHad dwelt in His pure light,Until one day the Holy Dove was sentTo Thee, O Mary, thee, O Dove on earth,And God the Son had birthOf thee, Perfection of thy God’s intent.
YOUNG on the mountains and freshAs the wind that thrills her hair,As the dews that lap the fleshOf her feet from cushions of thyme;While her feet through the herbage climb,Growing hardier, sweeter stillOn rock-roses and cushions of thyme,As she springs up the hill!A goat in its vaultings less lithe,From rock, to a tuft, to a rock;As the young of wild-deer blithe,The young of wild-deer, yet alone:Strong as an eaglet just flown,She wanders the white-woven earth,As the young of wild-deer, yet alone,In her triumph of mirth.She will be Mother of God!Secret He lies in her womb:And this mountain she hath trodWas later in strength than is she,Who before its mass might beWas chosen to bear her bliss:Conceived before mountains was she,Before any abyss.The might that dwells in her youthIs song to her heart and soul,Of joy that, as joy, is truth,That magnifies, and leapsWith its jubilant glee and sweeps,O fairest, her breast, her throat,Her mouth, and magnanimous leaps,As the mountain-lark’s note!Across the old hills she springs,With God’s first dream as her crown:She scales them swift, for she bringsElizabeth news of grace.The charity of her faceIs that of a lovely day,When the birds are singing news of grace,And the storms are away.
YOUNG on the mountains and freshAs the wind that thrills her hair,As the dews that lap the fleshOf her feet from cushions of thyme;While her feet through the herbage climb,Growing hardier, sweeter stillOn rock-roses and cushions of thyme,As she springs up the hill!A goat in its vaultings less lithe,From rock, to a tuft, to a rock;As the young of wild-deer blithe,The young of wild-deer, yet alone:Strong as an eaglet just flown,She wanders the white-woven earth,As the young of wild-deer, yet alone,In her triumph of mirth.She will be Mother of God!Secret He lies in her womb:And this mountain she hath trodWas later in strength than is she,Who before its mass might beWas chosen to bear her bliss:Conceived before mountains was she,Before any abyss.The might that dwells in her youthIs song to her heart and soul,Of joy that, as joy, is truth,That magnifies, and leapsWith its jubilant glee and sweeps,O fairest, her breast, her throat,Her mouth, and magnanimous leaps,As the mountain-lark’s note!Across the old hills she springs,With God’s first dream as her crown:She scales them swift, for she bringsElizabeth news of grace.The charity of her faceIs that of a lovely day,When the birds are singing news of grace,And the storms are away.
YOUNG on the mountains and freshAs the wind that thrills her hair,As the dews that lap the fleshOf her feet from cushions of thyme;While her feet through the herbage climb,Growing hardier, sweeter stillOn rock-roses and cushions of thyme,As she springs up the hill!
A goat in its vaultings less lithe,From rock, to a tuft, to a rock;As the young of wild-deer blithe,The young of wild-deer, yet alone:Strong as an eaglet just flown,She wanders the white-woven earth,As the young of wild-deer, yet alone,In her triumph of mirth.
She will be Mother of God!Secret He lies in her womb:And this mountain she hath trodWas later in strength than is she,Who before its mass might beWas chosen to bear her bliss:Conceived before mountains was she,Before any abyss.
The might that dwells in her youthIs song to her heart and soul,Of joy that, as joy, is truth,That magnifies, and leapsWith its jubilant glee and sweeps,O fairest, her breast, her throat,Her mouth, and magnanimous leaps,As the mountain-lark’s note!
Across the old hills she springs,With God’s first dream as her crown:She scales them swift, for she bringsElizabeth news of grace.The charity of her faceIs that of a lovely day,When the birds are singing news of grace,And the storms are away.
IN whose hands, O Son of God,Was Thy earthly Mission held?Not in Thine, that made earth’s sod,And the ocean as it welledFrom creation to the shore;Not in Thine, whose fingers’ loreChecked the tide with golden bars,Ruled the clouds and dinted stars—Not in Thine, that made fresh leaves,And the flourished wheat for sheaves;Grapes that bubbled from a spring,Where the nightingale might singFrom the blood of her wild throat;Not in Thine that struck her note;Maned the lion and wrought the lamb;Breathed on clay, “Be as I am!”And it stood before Thee fair,Thinking, loving, furnished rare,Like Thee, so beyond compare....Not within Thy hands!—Behold,By a woman’s hand unrolledAll the mystery sublimeOf Thy ableness through Time!Thou, in precious Boyhood, knewFor Thy Father what to do;And delayed Thyself to hearQuestions and to answer clearTo the Doctors’ chiming throng,Thou, admired, wert set among.Straight Thy Mission was begun,As the Jewish Rabbis spunRound Thy fetterless, sweet mindProblems no one had divined.But Thy Mother came that way,Who had sought Thee day by day,And her crystal voice reprovedThy new way with Thy beloved.In Thy wisdom-widened eyesThrobbed a radiance of surprise:But, Thy Mother having chidden,Thou in Nazareth wert hidden;And Thy Father’s Work begunStayed full eighteen years undone,Till Thou camest on Thine hour,When Thy Mother loosed Thy powerFor Thy Father’s business, said,In a murmur softly spread,Rippling to a happy few,“What He says unto you do!”As the spring-time to a tree,Sudden spring she was to Thee,When her strange appeal beganThy stayed Mission unto man;Stayed but by her earlier blame,When from three days’ woe she came;Yet renewed when she gave sign“Son, they have not any wine!”Holy trust and love! She gaveFor Thy sake oblation braveOf her will, her spotless name:Thou for her didst boldly tameGod the Word to wait on her;God’s own Wisdom might not stirTill her lovely voice decreed.Thou wouldst have our hearts give heed,And revere her lovely voice;Wait upon her secret choice,Stay her pleasure, as didst Thou,With a marvel on Thy brow,And a silence on Thy breath.We must cherish what she saith;As she pleadeth we must hopeFor our deeds’ accepted scope,Humble as her Heavenly Son,Till our liberty be won.
IN whose hands, O Son of God,Was Thy earthly Mission held?Not in Thine, that made earth’s sod,And the ocean as it welledFrom creation to the shore;Not in Thine, whose fingers’ loreChecked the tide with golden bars,Ruled the clouds and dinted stars—Not in Thine, that made fresh leaves,And the flourished wheat for sheaves;Grapes that bubbled from a spring,Where the nightingale might singFrom the blood of her wild throat;Not in Thine that struck her note;Maned the lion and wrought the lamb;Breathed on clay, “Be as I am!”And it stood before Thee fair,Thinking, loving, furnished rare,Like Thee, so beyond compare....Not within Thy hands!—Behold,By a woman’s hand unrolledAll the mystery sublimeOf Thy ableness through Time!Thou, in precious Boyhood, knewFor Thy Father what to do;And delayed Thyself to hearQuestions and to answer clearTo the Doctors’ chiming throng,Thou, admired, wert set among.Straight Thy Mission was begun,As the Jewish Rabbis spunRound Thy fetterless, sweet mindProblems no one had divined.But Thy Mother came that way,Who had sought Thee day by day,And her crystal voice reprovedThy new way with Thy beloved.In Thy wisdom-widened eyesThrobbed a radiance of surprise:But, Thy Mother having chidden,Thou in Nazareth wert hidden;And Thy Father’s Work begunStayed full eighteen years undone,Till Thou camest on Thine hour,When Thy Mother loosed Thy powerFor Thy Father’s business, said,In a murmur softly spread,Rippling to a happy few,“What He says unto you do!”As the spring-time to a tree,Sudden spring she was to Thee,When her strange appeal beganThy stayed Mission unto man;Stayed but by her earlier blame,When from three days’ woe she came;Yet renewed when she gave sign“Son, they have not any wine!”Holy trust and love! She gaveFor Thy sake oblation braveOf her will, her spotless name:Thou for her didst boldly tameGod the Word to wait on her;God’s own Wisdom might not stirTill her lovely voice decreed.Thou wouldst have our hearts give heed,And revere her lovely voice;Wait upon her secret choice,Stay her pleasure, as didst Thou,With a marvel on Thy brow,And a silence on Thy breath.We must cherish what she saith;As she pleadeth we must hopeFor our deeds’ accepted scope,Humble as her Heavenly Son,Till our liberty be won.
IN whose hands, O Son of God,Was Thy earthly Mission held?Not in Thine, that made earth’s sod,And the ocean as it welledFrom creation to the shore;Not in Thine, whose fingers’ loreChecked the tide with golden bars,Ruled the clouds and dinted stars—Not in Thine, that made fresh leaves,And the flourished wheat for sheaves;Grapes that bubbled from a spring,Where the nightingale might singFrom the blood of her wild throat;Not in Thine that struck her note;Maned the lion and wrought the lamb;Breathed on clay, “Be as I am!”And it stood before Thee fair,Thinking, loving, furnished rare,Like Thee, so beyond compare....
Not within Thy hands!—Behold,By a woman’s hand unrolledAll the mystery sublimeOf Thy ableness through Time!Thou, in precious Boyhood, knewFor Thy Father what to do;And delayed Thyself to hearQuestions and to answer clearTo the Doctors’ chiming throng,Thou, admired, wert set among.Straight Thy Mission was begun,As the Jewish Rabbis spunRound Thy fetterless, sweet mindProblems no one had divined.But Thy Mother came that way,Who had sought Thee day by day,And her crystal voice reprovedThy new way with Thy beloved.In Thy wisdom-widened eyesThrobbed a radiance of surprise:But, Thy Mother having chidden,Thou in Nazareth wert hidden;And Thy Father’s Work begunStayed full eighteen years undone,Till Thou camest on Thine hour,When Thy Mother loosed Thy powerFor Thy Father’s business, said,In a murmur softly spread,Rippling to a happy few,“What He says unto you do!”As the spring-time to a tree,Sudden spring she was to Thee,When her strange appeal beganThy stayed Mission unto man;Stayed but by her earlier blame,When from three days’ woe she came;Yet renewed when she gave sign“Son, they have not any wine!”
Holy trust and love! She gaveFor Thy sake oblation braveOf her will, her spotless name:Thou for her didst boldly tameGod the Word to wait on her;God’s own Wisdom might not stirTill her lovely voice decreed.Thou wouldst have our hearts give heed,And revere her lovely voice;Wait upon her secret choice,Stay her pleasure, as didst Thou,With a marvel on Thy brow,And a silence on Thy breath.We must cherish what she saith;As she pleadeth we must hopeFor our deeds’ accepted scope,Humble as her Heavenly Son,Till our liberty be won.
IN a garden at Bethany,O Mother, Mother, Mother!Amid the passion-flowers and olive-leaves—His Mother—Yet, behold, how tranquillyShe is sad and grieves,Though her Son is gone away,And she knows Passover DayWill not leave her Lamb, her Child unslain!He hath spoken to deaf ears,All save hers, of mortal painAnd of parting, yet she has no tears....He is gone awayWith His chosen few to eat the Pasch,Leaving in the eyes, she raised to ask,Mute assurance He would come no moreBack to Bethany, nor Lazarus’ door.O Mother, Mother, Mother!—But she keeps so many things apartIn their silence, pondering them by heart;Always she has pondered in her heart;And it knows her Son is Son of God....Silently she gazes where He trodDown the valley to Jerusalem—His Mother!Round her birds are at their parting songTo the light that will not strike them long;And the flowers are very goldWith the light before whose loss they fold.Keen the song, as on each wing,And on each rose and each rose-stemFull the burnishing.She hath crossed her hands around her breast,And it seems her heart is taking restWith some Mystery her spirit heeds....Song of Songs the birds now chaunt,And the lilies vauntHow among them, white, He feeds,Who but now hath left her—fair and whiteAs the lover of the Sunamite.. . . .In the city, in an upper room,As fair Paschal Bread He breaks and givesUnto men His Body while He lives—Then seeks out a Garden for His Doom.
IN a garden at Bethany,O Mother, Mother, Mother!Amid the passion-flowers and olive-leaves—His Mother—Yet, behold, how tranquillyShe is sad and grieves,Though her Son is gone away,And she knows Passover DayWill not leave her Lamb, her Child unslain!He hath spoken to deaf ears,All save hers, of mortal painAnd of parting, yet she has no tears....He is gone awayWith His chosen few to eat the Pasch,Leaving in the eyes, she raised to ask,Mute assurance He would come no moreBack to Bethany, nor Lazarus’ door.O Mother, Mother, Mother!—But she keeps so many things apartIn their silence, pondering them by heart;Always she has pondered in her heart;And it knows her Son is Son of God....Silently she gazes where He trodDown the valley to Jerusalem—His Mother!Round her birds are at their parting songTo the light that will not strike them long;And the flowers are very goldWith the light before whose loss they fold.Keen the song, as on each wing,And on each rose and each rose-stemFull the burnishing.She hath crossed her hands around her breast,And it seems her heart is taking restWith some Mystery her spirit heeds....Song of Songs the birds now chaunt,And the lilies vauntHow among them, white, He feeds,Who but now hath left her—fair and whiteAs the lover of the Sunamite.. . . .In the city, in an upper room,As fair Paschal Bread He breaks and givesUnto men His Body while He lives—Then seeks out a Garden for His Doom.
IN a garden at Bethany,O Mother, Mother, Mother!Amid the passion-flowers and olive-leaves—His Mother—Yet, behold, how tranquillyShe is sad and grieves,Though her Son is gone away,And she knows Passover DayWill not leave her Lamb, her Child unslain!He hath spoken to deaf ears,All save hers, of mortal painAnd of parting, yet she has no tears....He is gone awayWith His chosen few to eat the Pasch,Leaving in the eyes, she raised to ask,Mute assurance He would come no moreBack to Bethany, nor Lazarus’ door.O Mother, Mother, Mother!—But she keeps so many things apartIn their silence, pondering them by heart;Always she has pondered in her heart;And it knows her Son is Son of God....Silently she gazes where He trodDown the valley to Jerusalem—His Mother!Round her birds are at their parting songTo the light that will not strike them long;And the flowers are very goldWith the light before whose loss they fold.Keen the song, as on each wing,And on each rose and each rose-stemFull the burnishing.She hath crossed her hands around her breast,And it seems her heart is taking restWith some Mystery her spirit heeds....Song of Songs the birds now chaunt,And the lilies vauntHow among them, white, He feeds,Who but now hath left her—fair and whiteAs the lover of the Sunamite.
. . . .
In the city, in an upper room,As fair Paschal Bread He breaks and givesUnto men His Body while He lives—Then seeks out a Garden for His Doom.
MYSTERIOUS sway of mortal blood,That urges me upon Thy wood!—O Holy Cross, but I must tellMy love; how all my forces dwellUpon Thee and around Thee day and night!I love the Feet upon thy beam,As a wild lover loves his dream;My eyes can only fix upon that sight.O Tree, my arms are strong and soreTo clasp Thee, as when we adoreThe body of our dearest in our arms!Each pang I suffer hath for aimThy wood—its comfort is the same—A taint, an odour from inveterate balms.My clasp is filled, my sight receivesThe compass of its power; pain grievesAbout each sense but as a languid hum:And, out of weariness, at length,My day rejoices in its strength,My night that innocence of strife is come.
MYSTERIOUS sway of mortal blood,That urges me upon Thy wood!—O Holy Cross, but I must tellMy love; how all my forces dwellUpon Thee and around Thee day and night!I love the Feet upon thy beam,As a wild lover loves his dream;My eyes can only fix upon that sight.O Tree, my arms are strong and soreTo clasp Thee, as when we adoreThe body of our dearest in our arms!Each pang I suffer hath for aimThy wood—its comfort is the same—A taint, an odour from inveterate balms.My clasp is filled, my sight receivesThe compass of its power; pain grievesAbout each sense but as a languid hum:And, out of weariness, at length,My day rejoices in its strength,My night that innocence of strife is come.
MYSTERIOUS sway of mortal blood,That urges me upon Thy wood!—
O Holy Cross, but I must tellMy love; how all my forces dwellUpon Thee and around Thee day and night!I love the Feet upon thy beam,As a wild lover loves his dream;My eyes can only fix upon that sight.
O Tree, my arms are strong and soreTo clasp Thee, as when we adoreThe body of our dearest in our arms!Each pang I suffer hath for aimThy wood—its comfort is the same—A taint, an odour from inveterate balms.
My clasp is filled, my sight receivesThe compass of its power; pain grievesAbout each sense but as a languid hum:And, out of weariness, at length,My day rejoices in its strength,My night that innocence of strife is come.
PERFECTION of my God!—With hands on the same rod,With robes that interfold,One weft together rolled;With two wings of one DoveStretched the royal heads above—God severs from His Son,That what is not be won;Immortal, mortal grow,God entering manhood knowWhat was not and shall beOf cogent Deity.Perfection of my soul!—How shall I reach my goal,Unless I leave His Face,Who is my dwelling-place,Unless in exile doHis will a short while through,To the time’s sharpest rim:Unless, deprived of Him,I may achieve Him, lieHis victim, sigh on sigh,Bearing consummate pain,Supremely to attain?
PERFECTION of my God!—With hands on the same rod,With robes that interfold,One weft together rolled;With two wings of one DoveStretched the royal heads above—God severs from His Son,That what is not be won;Immortal, mortal grow,God entering manhood knowWhat was not and shall beOf cogent Deity.Perfection of my soul!—How shall I reach my goal,Unless I leave His Face,Who is my dwelling-place,Unless in exile doHis will a short while through,To the time’s sharpest rim:Unless, deprived of Him,I may achieve Him, lieHis victim, sigh on sigh,Bearing consummate pain,Supremely to attain?
PERFECTION of my God!—With hands on the same rod,With robes that interfold,One weft together rolled;With two wings of one DoveStretched the royal heads above—God severs from His Son,That what is not be won;Immortal, mortal grow,God entering manhood knowWhat was not and shall beOf cogent Deity.
Perfection of my soul!—How shall I reach my goal,Unless I leave His Face,Who is my dwelling-place,Unless in exile doHis will a short while through,To the time’s sharpest rim:Unless, deprived of Him,I may achieve Him, lieHis victim, sigh on sigh,Bearing consummate pain,Supremely to attain?
LOVER of Souls, Immaculate,Mary, by thy Immaculate Conception,Thy soul and body white for God’s reception,Beyond the ridg’d snows on the sky;Beyond the treasure of white beams that lieWithin the golden casket of the sun;By the excelling franchise of thy state,Plead for the Holy Souls, O Holiest One!Till they be cleansed grief hath no date!Them, through thy spotless grace, emboldenTo passion for their God, but once beholden,Nor ever more beheld till painHath made their souls’ recesses bright from stain.Plead they may swiftly see Him, nor may shunThe Vision, each achieved immaculate!Pure from the first, plead for them, Holiest One!
LOVER of Souls, Immaculate,Mary, by thy Immaculate Conception,Thy soul and body white for God’s reception,Beyond the ridg’d snows on the sky;Beyond the treasure of white beams that lieWithin the golden casket of the sun;By the excelling franchise of thy state,Plead for the Holy Souls, O Holiest One!Till they be cleansed grief hath no date!Them, through thy spotless grace, emboldenTo passion for their God, but once beholden,Nor ever more beheld till painHath made their souls’ recesses bright from stain.Plead they may swiftly see Him, nor may shunThe Vision, each achieved immaculate!Pure from the first, plead for them, Holiest One!
LOVER of Souls, Immaculate,Mary, by thy Immaculate Conception,Thy soul and body white for God’s reception,Beyond the ridg’d snows on the sky;Beyond the treasure of white beams that lieWithin the golden casket of the sun;By the excelling franchise of thy state,Plead for the Holy Souls, O Holiest One!
Till they be cleansed grief hath no date!Them, through thy spotless grace, emboldenTo passion for their God, but once beholden,Nor ever more beheld till painHath made their souls’ recesses bright from stain.Plead they may swiftly see Him, nor may shunThe Vision, each achieved immaculate!Pure from the first, plead for them, Holiest One!
MY heart is before thee, Queen,As a mariner at sea—It vows its sighs that swell to thee,Sighs as great as against waves may be.For thou art above the waves,On their summits thou dost float;Thy locks of gold along thy throat;Thou more gold than gold upon thy boat.Pomp of thy body, thy Child—On thy arm, small-crowned and sweet;Thou, large-crowned! Where billows meet,Why these crowns, like shocks of golden wheat?The Prince of Peace He is....As a mariner at sea,When waves are high and thronging free,High my heart entreats thy Son and thee.
MY heart is before thee, Queen,As a mariner at sea—It vows its sighs that swell to thee,Sighs as great as against waves may be.For thou art above the waves,On their summits thou dost float;Thy locks of gold along thy throat;Thou more gold than gold upon thy boat.Pomp of thy body, thy Child—On thy arm, small-crowned and sweet;Thou, large-crowned! Where billows meet,Why these crowns, like shocks of golden wheat?The Prince of Peace He is....As a mariner at sea,When waves are high and thronging free,High my heart entreats thy Son and thee.
MY heart is before thee, Queen,As a mariner at sea—It vows its sighs that swell to thee,Sighs as great as against waves may be.
For thou art above the waves,On their summits thou dost float;Thy locks of gold along thy throat;Thou more gold than gold upon thy boat.
Pomp of thy body, thy Child—On thy arm, small-crowned and sweet;Thou, large-crowned! Where billows meet,Why these crowns, like shocks of golden wheat?
The Prince of Peace He is....As a mariner at sea,When waves are high and thronging free,High my heart entreats thy Son and thee.
IT is new in the air from the sea and the height,New as a nest by a sea-bird fashioned....O Carmel, thy mound the rock-site!...And roofless our chapel, the home we, impassioned,Have built for her coming, O Gift from the Sea!Elijah, our father, descend to thy mountain,Where once was thy shrine, God created by flame;Where from a land dry in well as in fountainThou did’st keep vigil—as we—till she came,The Cloud from God’s Bosom, the Grace of His favour,The sweetness of Rain! O balm, oh, the savourOf air on the throat! O Desire from the Sea!Surrounded by roses and lilies of valleys,Sweeter than myrrh, or than balsam in chalice,Queen of the East, O Magnificent, bringThe sweetness familiar as rain to man’s cry;Murmur as rain round our hearts lest we die,White Cloud of felicity, Voice to our ears!Girt with vale-lilies and roses a spring-day appears,But Thou, Queen of Carmel, art Spring.Surely the last, we are first in our glory:Splendid out-broke in our desert the storyHow flame that fell down on our shrine at the callOf our father Elijah had fallen down on all.So Christ is received of us, Carmel receives Him,The stones and the dust and the sea-winds believe Him:But after God’s Fire there is hope of God’s Rain.To us art thou come, O Abundance of Rain!Thy little, roofless sanctuary, Queen,Finds us in winds, in sunset or at night,With stars to help our candles, wild and freeAs Pagans by their Virgin of moonlight,Diana of the Hunters’ rocks: so weUpon the heights, and in the breeze are seen,And called the Brothers of thy lovely name,Blest Mary of Mount Carmel. Asia, cryHer splendour! Cry to her, O Eastern Kings,Encompass her! She is our very own,In mercy manifest to us alone,Our Cloud of Mercy that from seaward springs,And crouched Elijah sought for, sigh on sigh.And for our thanks ... O Eastern Kings, your treasureIn this may serve us, that a pearl may lurk,Or in your chests there may be jewel-workThat, as she is a Queen, might give her pleasure.We are her monks, we have no precious things.Close round her, Kings!With frankincense and myrrh,Open a fount for her!With cloth of gold proclaim her and enthrone!Afar off we will weep—she is our own.
IT is new in the air from the sea and the height,New as a nest by a sea-bird fashioned....O Carmel, thy mound the rock-site!...And roofless our chapel, the home we, impassioned,Have built for her coming, O Gift from the Sea!Elijah, our father, descend to thy mountain,Where once was thy shrine, God created by flame;Where from a land dry in well as in fountainThou did’st keep vigil—as we—till she came,The Cloud from God’s Bosom, the Grace of His favour,The sweetness of Rain! O balm, oh, the savourOf air on the throat! O Desire from the Sea!Surrounded by roses and lilies of valleys,Sweeter than myrrh, or than balsam in chalice,Queen of the East, O Magnificent, bringThe sweetness familiar as rain to man’s cry;Murmur as rain round our hearts lest we die,White Cloud of felicity, Voice to our ears!Girt with vale-lilies and roses a spring-day appears,But Thou, Queen of Carmel, art Spring.Surely the last, we are first in our glory:Splendid out-broke in our desert the storyHow flame that fell down on our shrine at the callOf our father Elijah had fallen down on all.So Christ is received of us, Carmel receives Him,The stones and the dust and the sea-winds believe Him:But after God’s Fire there is hope of God’s Rain.To us art thou come, O Abundance of Rain!Thy little, roofless sanctuary, Queen,Finds us in winds, in sunset or at night,With stars to help our candles, wild and freeAs Pagans by their Virgin of moonlight,Diana of the Hunters’ rocks: so weUpon the heights, and in the breeze are seen,And called the Brothers of thy lovely name,Blest Mary of Mount Carmel. Asia, cryHer splendour! Cry to her, O Eastern Kings,Encompass her! She is our very own,In mercy manifest to us alone,Our Cloud of Mercy that from seaward springs,And crouched Elijah sought for, sigh on sigh.And for our thanks ... O Eastern Kings, your treasureIn this may serve us, that a pearl may lurk,Or in your chests there may be jewel-workThat, as she is a Queen, might give her pleasure.We are her monks, we have no precious things.Close round her, Kings!With frankincense and myrrh,Open a fount for her!With cloth of gold proclaim her and enthrone!Afar off we will weep—she is our own.
IT is new in the air from the sea and the height,New as a nest by a sea-bird fashioned....O Carmel, thy mound the rock-site!...And roofless our chapel, the home we, impassioned,Have built for her coming, O Gift from the Sea!Elijah, our father, descend to thy mountain,Where once was thy shrine, God created by flame;Where from a land dry in well as in fountainThou did’st keep vigil—as we—till she came,The Cloud from God’s Bosom, the Grace of His favour,The sweetness of Rain! O balm, oh, the savourOf air on the throat! O Desire from the Sea!Surrounded by roses and lilies of valleys,Sweeter than myrrh, or than balsam in chalice,Queen of the East, O Magnificent, bringThe sweetness familiar as rain to man’s cry;Murmur as rain round our hearts lest we die,White Cloud of felicity, Voice to our ears!Girt with vale-lilies and roses a spring-day appears,But Thou, Queen of Carmel, art Spring.
Surely the last, we are first in our glory:Splendid out-broke in our desert the storyHow flame that fell down on our shrine at the callOf our father Elijah had fallen down on all.So Christ is received of us, Carmel receives Him,The stones and the dust and the sea-winds believe Him:But after God’s Fire there is hope of God’s Rain.To us art thou come, O Abundance of Rain!
Thy little, roofless sanctuary, Queen,Finds us in winds, in sunset or at night,With stars to help our candles, wild and freeAs Pagans by their Virgin of moonlight,Diana of the Hunters’ rocks: so weUpon the heights, and in the breeze are seen,And called the Brothers of thy lovely name,Blest Mary of Mount Carmel. Asia, cryHer splendour! Cry to her, O Eastern Kings,Encompass her! She is our very own,In mercy manifest to us alone,Our Cloud of Mercy that from seaward springs,And crouched Elijah sought for, sigh on sigh.
And for our thanks ... O Eastern Kings, your treasureIn this may serve us, that a pearl may lurk,Or in your chests there may be jewel-workThat, as she is a Queen, might give her pleasure.We are her monks, we have no precious things.Close round her, Kings!With frankincense and myrrh,Open a fount for her!With cloth of gold proclaim her and enthrone!Afar off we will weep—she is our own.
HOW still these two!Christ with far eyes, John with the fond eyes closed,And close untoThe breast wherefrom is peace—No slumber that shall cease,But charmed safety of a faith as sureAs a mountain’s founding to endure:And warm as sleep John’s loveFor the rapt Face above.Far-rapt, Christ’s eyes,In strength, remember His own resting-place,Where, in this wise,He, the Eternal Word,Had kept deep lull unstirred,Upon the bosom of the Father laid;And, of that peace divined,Knew the Eternal mind.Then the raised FaceBreaks soft and the eyes droop and bend aboveThe sweet head’s place,Where from closed eyelids JohnSetteth his love uponGod, his Lord, his Thought, his Lover dear:And, in lapse of silence falling clear,One heareth only this—On the sweet head, a kiss.
HOW still these two!Christ with far eyes, John with the fond eyes closed,And close untoThe breast wherefrom is peace—No slumber that shall cease,But charmed safety of a faith as sureAs a mountain’s founding to endure:And warm as sleep John’s loveFor the rapt Face above.Far-rapt, Christ’s eyes,In strength, remember His own resting-place,Where, in this wise,He, the Eternal Word,Had kept deep lull unstirred,Upon the bosom of the Father laid;And, of that peace divined,Knew the Eternal mind.Then the raised FaceBreaks soft and the eyes droop and bend aboveThe sweet head’s place,Where from closed eyelids JohnSetteth his love uponGod, his Lord, his Thought, his Lover dear:And, in lapse of silence falling clear,One heareth only this—On the sweet head, a kiss.
HOW still these two!Christ with far eyes, John with the fond eyes closed,And close untoThe breast wherefrom is peace—No slumber that shall cease,But charmed safety of a faith as sureAs a mountain’s founding to endure:And warm as sleep John’s loveFor the rapt Face above.
Far-rapt, Christ’s eyes,In strength, remember His own resting-place,Where, in this wise,He, the Eternal Word,Had kept deep lull unstirred,Upon the bosom of the Father laid;And, of that peace divined,Knew the Eternal mind.
Then the raised FaceBreaks soft and the eyes droop and bend aboveThe sweet head’s place,Where from closed eyelids JohnSetteth his love uponGod, his Lord, his Thought, his Lover dear:And, in lapse of silence falling clear,One heareth only this—On the sweet head, a kiss.
COME to a revel, happy men!Far away on the hills a wine of joyMakes golden dew in drops, that cloyThe fissures of the glen,The crevices of rock;Caught in its sweetness thyme and cistus lock;The hills are white and goldIn every fold;The hills are running milk and honey-rivers;Yet not a thyrsus on a mountain quivers.
COME to a revel, happy men!Far away on the hills a wine of joyMakes golden dew in drops, that cloyThe fissures of the glen,The crevices of rock;Caught in its sweetness thyme and cistus lock;The hills are white and goldIn every fold;The hills are running milk and honey-rivers;Yet not a thyrsus on a mountain quivers.
COME to a revel, happy men!Far away on the hills a wine of joyMakes golden dew in drops, that cloyThe fissures of the glen,The crevices of rock;Caught in its sweetness thyme and cistus lock;The hills are white and goldIn every fold;The hills are running milk and honey-rivers;Yet not a thyrsus on a mountain quivers.
DOES not the distant city cry,As if filled with an unexpected rout,Alleluia, shout on shout?Nor can the city highExult in song enough,Tuning to smoothness all her highways rough.And yet the Bromian godHath never trodWith choir the pavements, nor each grape-haired dancerGiven to the mountain-streams a city’s answer.
DOES not the distant city cry,As if filled with an unexpected rout,Alleluia, shout on shout?Nor can the city highExult in song enough,Tuning to smoothness all her highways rough.And yet the Bromian godHath never trodWith choir the pavements, nor each grape-haired dancerGiven to the mountain-streams a city’s answer.
DOES not the distant city cry,As if filled with an unexpected rout,Alleluia, shout on shout?Nor can the city highExult in song enough,Tuning to smoothness all her highways rough.And yet the Bromian godHath never trodWith choir the pavements, nor each grape-haired dancerGiven to the mountain-streams a city’s answer.
BEHOLD, O men, a vivid light!Is it the lightning-fire that blazes wide,Or torches lit on every sideThat turn the sky so bright?Through this great, sudden day,No levin-gendered god’s triumphant wayThe brands of pine confess:A lovelinessWithin that mighty light of larger storyIs come among us with exceeding glory.
BEHOLD, O men, a vivid light!Is it the lightning-fire that blazes wide,Or torches lit on every sideThat turn the sky so bright?Through this great, sudden day,No levin-gendered god’s triumphant wayThe brands of pine confess:A lovelinessWithin that mighty light of larger storyIs come among us with exceeding glory.
BEHOLD, O men, a vivid light!Is it the lightning-fire that blazes wide,Or torches lit on every sideThat turn the sky so bright?Through this great, sudden day,No levin-gendered god’s triumphant wayThe brands of pine confess:A lovelinessWithin that mighty light of larger storyIs come among us with exceeding glory.
YE that would drink, come forth and drink!Within the hills are rivers white and gold;Clear mid the day a portent to behold.Stoop at the water’s brink,Seek where the light is great!Why should the revellers for revel wait?Now ye can drink as thirsty stagsWhere no source flags.Forth to the water-brooks, forth in the morning;Forth to the light that out of light is dawning!
YE that would drink, come forth and drink!Within the hills are rivers white and gold;Clear mid the day a portent to behold.Stoop at the water’s brink,Seek where the light is great!Why should the revellers for revel wait?Now ye can drink as thirsty stagsWhere no source flags.Forth to the water-brooks, forth in the morning;Forth to the light that out of light is dawning!
YE that would drink, come forth and drink!Within the hills are rivers white and gold;Clear mid the day a portent to behold.Stoop at the water’s brink,Seek where the light is great!Why should the revellers for revel wait?Now ye can drink as thirsty stagsWhere no source flags.Forth to the water-brooks, forth in the morning;Forth to the light that out of light is dawning!
TIRESIAS, with thy wreath, not thou!Gray prophet of the fount of Thebes, beholdA prophet neither blind nor old,Spare and of solemn brow,Is risen to make all young:He dwells amongThe freshets of the stream. Come to the Waters;O Sons of Adam, haste, and Eva’s daughters!This revel, children, is a revelryAscetic, of a joy that cannot beUnless we fast and pray and wear no wreaths,Nor brandish cones the forest-fir bequeathes,Nor make a din—but sweet antiphonies—Nor blow through organ-reeds to sing to these,But of ourselves make song: it is a feast,That by the breath of deserts is increased;And by ablution in the river liftsIts grain to crystal—earth so full of giftsMost exquisite, breaths that are infiniteOf infinite judgment, hesitations lightOf infinite choiceness, life so fine, so fine,Since of our flesh we welcome the Divine;Since by our fast and reticence, our foodFrom honey-bees in haunts of solitude,O mighty Prophet of the river-bank,We see that light that makes the sun a blank,As a white dove makes a whole region dim;See in the greatness of the great Light’s rimOne we must fall down under would we winThe ecstasy of revel—all our sinBorne from us by the Wine-Cup in a handThat bleeds about the vessel’s golden stand,Bleeds as the white throat of a lamb just slain.Behold! NoEvoeat that poured red stain,NoEvoe—Alleluia!He is dumb:But let us laud Him, Eleutherius come!
TIRESIAS, with thy wreath, not thou!Gray prophet of the fount of Thebes, beholdA prophet neither blind nor old,Spare and of solemn brow,Is risen to make all young:He dwells amongThe freshets of the stream. Come to the Waters;O Sons of Adam, haste, and Eva’s daughters!This revel, children, is a revelryAscetic, of a joy that cannot beUnless we fast and pray and wear no wreaths,Nor brandish cones the forest-fir bequeathes,Nor make a din—but sweet antiphonies—Nor blow through organ-reeds to sing to these,But of ourselves make song: it is a feast,That by the breath of deserts is increased;And by ablution in the river liftsIts grain to crystal—earth so full of giftsMost exquisite, breaths that are infiniteOf infinite judgment, hesitations lightOf infinite choiceness, life so fine, so fine,Since of our flesh we welcome the Divine;Since by our fast and reticence, our foodFrom honey-bees in haunts of solitude,O mighty Prophet of the river-bank,We see that light that makes the sun a blank,As a white dove makes a whole region dim;See in the greatness of the great Light’s rimOne we must fall down under would we winThe ecstasy of revel—all our sinBorne from us by the Wine-Cup in a handThat bleeds about the vessel’s golden stand,Bleeds as the white throat of a lamb just slain.Behold! NoEvoeat that poured red stain,NoEvoe—Alleluia!He is dumb:But let us laud Him, Eleutherius come!
TIRESIAS, with thy wreath, not thou!Gray prophet of the fount of Thebes, beholdA prophet neither blind nor old,Spare and of solemn brow,Is risen to make all young:He dwells amongThe freshets of the stream. Come to the Waters;O Sons of Adam, haste, and Eva’s daughters!This revel, children, is a revelryAscetic, of a joy that cannot beUnless we fast and pray and wear no wreaths,Nor brandish cones the forest-fir bequeathes,Nor make a din—but sweet antiphonies—Nor blow through organ-reeds to sing to these,But of ourselves make song: it is a feast,That by the breath of deserts is increased;And by ablution in the river liftsIts grain to crystal—earth so full of giftsMost exquisite, breaths that are infiniteOf infinite judgment, hesitations lightOf infinite choiceness, life so fine, so fine,Since of our flesh we welcome the Divine;Since by our fast and reticence, our foodFrom honey-bees in haunts of solitude,O mighty Prophet of the river-bank,We see that light that makes the sun a blank,As a white dove makes a whole region dim;See in the greatness of the great Light’s rimOne we must fall down under would we winThe ecstasy of revel—all our sinBorne from us by the Wine-Cup in a handThat bleeds about the vessel’s golden stand,Bleeds as the white throat of a lamb just slain.Behold! NoEvoeat that poured red stain,NoEvoe—Alleluia!He is dumb:But let us laud Him, Eleutherius come!
“Blessèd art Thou among women, Mary!”Through white wings,The angel bringsOf a Saviour’s birth annunciation—Tidings of great joy to one afraid.“Blessèd art thou Simon, son of Jonah!”In his power,His smile as dower,Of His Church’s birth, annunciationIs by God Himself, no angel, made.Blessèd art Thou, Mary; blessèd, Peter!But the graceOf God’s own faceIs on Peter for annunciation,When he speaks, by flesh and blood unswayed.
“Blessèd art Thou among women, Mary!”Through white wings,The angel bringsOf a Saviour’s birth annunciation—Tidings of great joy to one afraid.“Blessèd art thou Simon, son of Jonah!”In his power,His smile as dower,Of His Church’s birth, annunciationIs by God Himself, no angel, made.Blessèd art Thou, Mary; blessèd, Peter!But the graceOf God’s own faceIs on Peter for annunciation,When he speaks, by flesh and blood unswayed.
“Blessèd art Thou among women, Mary!”Through white wings,The angel bringsOf a Saviour’s birth annunciation—Tidings of great joy to one afraid.
“Blessèd art thou Simon, son of Jonah!”In his power,His smile as dower,Of His Church’s birth, annunciationIs by God Himself, no angel, made.
Blessèd art Thou, Mary; blessèd, Peter!But the graceOf God’s own faceIs on Peter for annunciation,When he speaks, by flesh and blood unswayed.
FORTH from a cloud,Loosed as a greyhound is loosed,To sweep down the sky,To sweep down the hill,A torrent of water unnoosed—The rain rushes on aloud,And becometh a stream on the earth, and stillGroweth and spreadeth as its stream sweeps by.And the stones of its courseAre bright with its joy as it leapsAround them in might,Beyond them in joy;For it sings round the rocky heaps,From the brightness of its force;Nor can pebbles nor boulders of granite cloyIn their multitude the stream’s delight.With a torrent’s bliss,The Martyr Stephen receivesThe stones for his head,The stones for his breast,And smiles from his strength that believes:“Sweet stones of the brook!”—for thisIs the singing, the song of his heart expressed,As he kneels, looking up, his hands outspread.A river of blood, the tideOf martyrdom, gathers roundHis soul as a stream;While the stones are drenchedWith tides of his blood as they boundFrom temple and mouth and side ...Stones of offence, dark stones from the torrent wrenched,Ye strike the trend of his joy as a dream!
FORTH from a cloud,Loosed as a greyhound is loosed,To sweep down the sky,To sweep down the hill,A torrent of water unnoosed—The rain rushes on aloud,And becometh a stream on the earth, and stillGroweth and spreadeth as its stream sweeps by.And the stones of its courseAre bright with its joy as it leapsAround them in might,Beyond them in joy;For it sings round the rocky heaps,From the brightness of its force;Nor can pebbles nor boulders of granite cloyIn their multitude the stream’s delight.With a torrent’s bliss,The Martyr Stephen receivesThe stones for his head,The stones for his breast,And smiles from his strength that believes:“Sweet stones of the brook!”—for thisIs the singing, the song of his heart expressed,As he kneels, looking up, his hands outspread.A river of blood, the tideOf martyrdom, gathers roundHis soul as a stream;While the stones are drenchedWith tides of his blood as they boundFrom temple and mouth and side ...Stones of offence, dark stones from the torrent wrenched,Ye strike the trend of his joy as a dream!
FORTH from a cloud,Loosed as a greyhound is loosed,To sweep down the sky,To sweep down the hill,A torrent of water unnoosed—The rain rushes on aloud,And becometh a stream on the earth, and stillGroweth and spreadeth as its stream sweeps by.
And the stones of its courseAre bright with its joy as it leapsAround them in might,Beyond them in joy;For it sings round the rocky heaps,From the brightness of its force;Nor can pebbles nor boulders of granite cloyIn their multitude the stream’s delight.
With a torrent’s bliss,The Martyr Stephen receivesThe stones for his head,The stones for his breast,And smiles from his strength that believes:“Sweet stones of the brook!”—for thisIs the singing, the song of his heart expressed,As he kneels, looking up, his hands outspread.
A river of blood, the tideOf martyrdom, gathers roundHis soul as a stream;While the stones are drenchedWith tides of his blood as they boundFrom temple and mouth and side ...Stones of offence, dark stones from the torrent wrenched,Ye strike the trend of his joy as a dream!
AN alabaster box,A tomb of precious stone—White, with white bars, as whiteAs billows on a sea:With spaces where some flushOf sky-like rose is conscious and afraidOf whiteness and white bars.A lovely sepulchre of loveliest stone,This alabaster box—Coy as a maiden’s blood in flush,White as a maiden’s breast in stretch,Alive with fear and grace;Transparent rose,Translucent white;A treasury of precious stone,A strange, long tomb....’Twas Maximin, who had this casket made,The holy Maximin, who travelled onceWith Mary Magdalen, and preached with her;Till on a wind as quietAs it had been a cloud,She was removed by Christ to dwell alone.Alone she dwelt, her peaceA thought that never fellFrom its full tide.Ever beside her in her cave,A vase of golden curls,A clod of blooded earth.And when she died at last, and MaximinMust bury her;Being man and holy, in his loveHe laid her in an alabaster box,As she had laid her soul’s deep penitence,Her soul’s deep passion, a sweet balm, withinAn alabaster box:So Maximin gave Magdalen to God—Shut as a spice in precious stone,In bland and flushing boxOf alabaster stone.And knowing all her secrets, Maximin,Being man and holy, laid withinThe priceless cave of alabaster twoMost precious, cherished things—A vase of curly hair,A vase of golden web;A clod of withered soil,A clod of blooded earth.The curls were crushed together in gold lump,Crushed by the hand that wipedThe Holy Feet, kept in a crush of gold,Just as they dabbed the sweetly smelling Feet—The curls enwoven by the balm they dried,Knotted as rose of Sharon, when the windsSweep it along the desert.... Curls, of powerTo float the charm of Eve in aureoleRound her they covered, till she crushed them tightTo dab the Holy Feet, and afterwardBe severed from their growth,Stiff in their balm and gold;A piece of honeycomb in rings and web;Sweetness of shorn, gold, unguent-dabbled hair,A handful in a vase.The clod, a bit of hill-turf dry;The turf that sheep might pull up as they graze;Or men might throw upon the fireAt sundown when the air is loosed and cold:A clod an eagle mightAscend to build with, or a goatKick down a valley’s side;A clod dark-redAs if it mothered ruby of the mines.The hand that gathered it one hollow nightGathered it up red-wet from Golgotha.Three crosses lay about the grass—Such arms and shafts of crosses on the grass!—When she, who gathered, creptAmong the prostrate arms;Roused a great death-bird from the ground,And, in its place,Bent down and pressed her lips where it had couched,And lifted up the ground to press her heart;And went her way, hugging the Sacred BloodAs in a sponge of turf,That dried about the treasure, now grown hard,As if it mothered ruby of the mines—A clod of blooded soil.O Relics of the Holy Magdalen!The balmy hair her plea,God’s Blood her grace:Within a vase her gift,Within a turf-clod His—Her relics, by her corpse;All she had cared to keep,Through hermit years of life,To bless her in her tombTill Judgment-Day.
AN alabaster box,A tomb of precious stone—White, with white bars, as whiteAs billows on a sea:With spaces where some flushOf sky-like rose is conscious and afraidOf whiteness and white bars.A lovely sepulchre of loveliest stone,This alabaster box—Coy as a maiden’s blood in flush,White as a maiden’s breast in stretch,Alive with fear and grace;Transparent rose,Translucent white;A treasury of precious stone,A strange, long tomb....’Twas Maximin, who had this casket made,The holy Maximin, who travelled onceWith Mary Magdalen, and preached with her;Till on a wind as quietAs it had been a cloud,She was removed by Christ to dwell alone.Alone she dwelt, her peaceA thought that never fellFrom its full tide.Ever beside her in her cave,A vase of golden curls,A clod of blooded earth.And when she died at last, and MaximinMust bury her;Being man and holy, in his loveHe laid her in an alabaster box,As she had laid her soul’s deep penitence,Her soul’s deep passion, a sweet balm, withinAn alabaster box:So Maximin gave Magdalen to God—Shut as a spice in precious stone,In bland and flushing boxOf alabaster stone.And knowing all her secrets, Maximin,Being man and holy, laid withinThe priceless cave of alabaster twoMost precious, cherished things—A vase of curly hair,A vase of golden web;A clod of withered soil,A clod of blooded earth.The curls were crushed together in gold lump,Crushed by the hand that wipedThe Holy Feet, kept in a crush of gold,Just as they dabbed the sweetly smelling Feet—The curls enwoven by the balm they dried,Knotted as rose of Sharon, when the windsSweep it along the desert.... Curls, of powerTo float the charm of Eve in aureoleRound her they covered, till she crushed them tightTo dab the Holy Feet, and afterwardBe severed from their growth,Stiff in their balm and gold;A piece of honeycomb in rings and web;Sweetness of shorn, gold, unguent-dabbled hair,A handful in a vase.The clod, a bit of hill-turf dry;The turf that sheep might pull up as they graze;Or men might throw upon the fireAt sundown when the air is loosed and cold:A clod an eagle mightAscend to build with, or a goatKick down a valley’s side;A clod dark-redAs if it mothered ruby of the mines.The hand that gathered it one hollow nightGathered it up red-wet from Golgotha.Three crosses lay about the grass—Such arms and shafts of crosses on the grass!—When she, who gathered, creptAmong the prostrate arms;Roused a great death-bird from the ground,And, in its place,Bent down and pressed her lips where it had couched,And lifted up the ground to press her heart;And went her way, hugging the Sacred BloodAs in a sponge of turf,That dried about the treasure, now grown hard,As if it mothered ruby of the mines—A clod of blooded soil.O Relics of the Holy Magdalen!The balmy hair her plea,God’s Blood her grace:Within a vase her gift,Within a turf-clod His—Her relics, by her corpse;All she had cared to keep,Through hermit years of life,To bless her in her tombTill Judgment-Day.
AN alabaster box,A tomb of precious stone—White, with white bars, as whiteAs billows on a sea:With spaces where some flushOf sky-like rose is conscious and afraidOf whiteness and white bars.A lovely sepulchre of loveliest stone,This alabaster box—Coy as a maiden’s blood in flush,White as a maiden’s breast in stretch,Alive with fear and grace;Transparent rose,Translucent white;A treasury of precious stone,A strange, long tomb....’Twas Maximin, who had this casket made,The holy Maximin, who travelled onceWith Mary Magdalen, and preached with her;Till on a wind as quietAs it had been a cloud,She was removed by Christ to dwell alone.
Alone she dwelt, her peaceA thought that never fellFrom its full tide.Ever beside her in her cave,A vase of golden curls,A clod of blooded earth.And when she died at last, and MaximinMust bury her;Being man and holy, in his loveHe laid her in an alabaster box,As she had laid her soul’s deep penitence,Her soul’s deep passion, a sweet balm, withinAn alabaster box:So Maximin gave Magdalen to God—Shut as a spice in precious stone,In bland and flushing boxOf alabaster stone.And knowing all her secrets, Maximin,Being man and holy, laid withinThe priceless cave of alabaster twoMost precious, cherished things—A vase of curly hair,A vase of golden web;A clod of withered soil,A clod of blooded earth.
The curls were crushed together in gold lump,Crushed by the hand that wipedThe Holy Feet, kept in a crush of gold,Just as they dabbed the sweetly smelling Feet—The curls enwoven by the balm they dried,Knotted as rose of Sharon, when the windsSweep it along the desert.... Curls, of powerTo float the charm of Eve in aureoleRound her they covered, till she crushed them tightTo dab the Holy Feet, and afterwardBe severed from their growth,Stiff in their balm and gold;A piece of honeycomb in rings and web;Sweetness of shorn, gold, unguent-dabbled hair,A handful in a vase.
The clod, a bit of hill-turf dry;The turf that sheep might pull up as they graze;Or men might throw upon the fireAt sundown when the air is loosed and cold:A clod an eagle mightAscend to build with, or a goatKick down a valley’s side;A clod dark-redAs if it mothered ruby of the mines.The hand that gathered it one hollow nightGathered it up red-wet from Golgotha.Three crosses lay about the grass—Such arms and shafts of crosses on the grass!—When she, who gathered, creptAmong the prostrate arms;Roused a great death-bird from the ground,And, in its place,Bent down and pressed her lips where it had couched,And lifted up the ground to press her heart;And went her way, hugging the Sacred BloodAs in a sponge of turf,That dried about the treasure, now grown hard,As if it mothered ruby of the mines—A clod of blooded soil.
O Relics of the Holy Magdalen!The balmy hair her plea,God’s Blood her grace:Within a vase her gift,Within a turf-clod His—Her relics, by her corpse;All she had cared to keep,Through hermit years of life,To bless her in her tombTill Judgment-Day.
LO, Crimean marble-quarries towerColder even than snow-peaks in their power,To the very heart stone-white:And the Christian captives strainOn the hillsides in their pain,As they toil for Trajan day and night.Who is this who comes with stirless brow,And sweet eyes that never could allowRebels save upon their knees?Through the hills a voice is fannedThat Pope Clement hath been bannedStraightly to the marble Chersonese.Toiling with his people ’mid the rocks,On a streamless slope, the quarried blocksHe compels to whiteness clear.There a bitter cry is madeOf the thirst that, unallayed,Dreams of well, or freshet, or wide mere.He hath climbed to pray.... A lamb he sees,Pawing gladly in the mountain-breeze,Very golden unto snow:Lamb of God, cross-aureoled,Lovely on His vertex bold,Set above a River’s gush and flow.By the brazen footstroke is expressedImpetus as of God’s River blest.Dew and snow in all their shineRound that heavenly Lamb and StreamTake the lustre of their dream,In a flood and blush of flame combine.On the heavens, from Patmos’ shore,John beheld this crystal sight before—Not to bring a people aid;But, sweet Clement, thou hast seen, on earthGod’s own Lamb, His River’s birth;How He shone and how its waters played!
LO, Crimean marble-quarries towerColder even than snow-peaks in their power,To the very heart stone-white:And the Christian captives strainOn the hillsides in their pain,As they toil for Trajan day and night.Who is this who comes with stirless brow,And sweet eyes that never could allowRebels save upon their knees?Through the hills a voice is fannedThat Pope Clement hath been bannedStraightly to the marble Chersonese.Toiling with his people ’mid the rocks,On a streamless slope, the quarried blocksHe compels to whiteness clear.There a bitter cry is madeOf the thirst that, unallayed,Dreams of well, or freshet, or wide mere.He hath climbed to pray.... A lamb he sees,Pawing gladly in the mountain-breeze,Very golden unto snow:Lamb of God, cross-aureoled,Lovely on His vertex bold,Set above a River’s gush and flow.By the brazen footstroke is expressedImpetus as of God’s River blest.Dew and snow in all their shineRound that heavenly Lamb and StreamTake the lustre of their dream,In a flood and blush of flame combine.On the heavens, from Patmos’ shore,John beheld this crystal sight before—Not to bring a people aid;But, sweet Clement, thou hast seen, on earthGod’s own Lamb, His River’s birth;How He shone and how its waters played!
LO, Crimean marble-quarries towerColder even than snow-peaks in their power,To the very heart stone-white:And the Christian captives strainOn the hillsides in their pain,As they toil for Trajan day and night.
Who is this who comes with stirless brow,And sweet eyes that never could allowRebels save upon their knees?Through the hills a voice is fannedThat Pope Clement hath been bannedStraightly to the marble Chersonese.
Toiling with his people ’mid the rocks,On a streamless slope, the quarried blocksHe compels to whiteness clear.There a bitter cry is madeOf the thirst that, unallayed,Dreams of well, or freshet, or wide mere.
He hath climbed to pray.... A lamb he sees,Pawing gladly in the mountain-breeze,Very golden unto snow:Lamb of God, cross-aureoled,Lovely on His vertex bold,Set above a River’s gush and flow.
By the brazen footstroke is expressedImpetus as of God’s River blest.Dew and snow in all their shineRound that heavenly Lamb and StreamTake the lustre of their dream,In a flood and blush of flame combine.
On the heavens, from Patmos’ shore,John beheld this crystal sight before—Not to bring a people aid;But, sweet Clement, thou hast seen, on earthGod’s own Lamb, His River’s birth;How He shone and how its waters played!
“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy! Save him, save!”—“Father, receive my spirit from the wave.”Rolls the great Sea of the ChersoneseTossed and facing him and these....Cold in waters, high in heapAs a quarry should it sweepWith a landslip down on men:And it roars as in its denRoars a monster apt for blood.He must journey on this floodTo the harbour of his soul;He must seek his furthest goal,With an anchor round his neck,From yon tossing vessel’s deckCast to drown, when out at seaFull three miles that ship may be.And his fellow-exiles cry,“Let him not, Lord Jesus, die!”On the clouds the vessel is a spot.“Lord Jesus, save him!... Is there not,O brothers, in the sea retreat—Caught back, rolling from our feet,Not in waves, as under tide,But withdrawn on every side?Very solemn is this floor!We can see the waves no more.Let us follow them athwartSea-deeps with no waters fraught;Let us wipe our tears away,Let us take this holy way!Large the floor and larger still:Must the whole horizon fillWith a land of weed and shell,Where no billows native dwellAny more—we know not why:Any more, since we made cry?”As the sunset clears the sky,Yet across its wondrous spaceThere is one transcendent placeWhere the sun is laid to rest:So these mourners, strangely blessed—Over sand and coral cleanAnd unbroken shells, serene,With the peace where sea hath been,Over panting sea-stars bright,Silver-raying fishes, madFor the livesome brine they had—Come upon a Temple-grot,Set before them in a spotOf the naked desert, leftBy the ocean’s woof and weftOf the tidal streams withdrawn.There upon the sand, forlornIn its beauty, far remote,Stands a Temple-shrine, they noteOf the Holy Spirit’s dream....And they cross a little stream,Thrilling with the far-off sea;And they follow what must be,As they tread within the shrine,Builded marble for a signAngels had been set to buildOn a ground the ocean filled.In a tabernacle lies,Lone and grand to seeking eyes,Not the sunk sun, but a tomb,Whitest marble, and the roomOf the holy Clement dead.There he lies, how comforted!Through the mighty water broughtTo a peace, a harbour wroughtOf the holy Angels’ care.Close his anchor! He so stillAnd sufficed—the waves that killDriven away by angel-hands;While his people’s exile bandsKneel around him in the sea....Come to port, his anchor by!Thus the sun each day must die:Thus sweet Clement but one dayIn the sea sank down, and layAs at sunset, full of peace.They bear him to the land: and the flood-tides increase.
“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy! Save him, save!”—“Father, receive my spirit from the wave.”Rolls the great Sea of the ChersoneseTossed and facing him and these....Cold in waters, high in heapAs a quarry should it sweepWith a landslip down on men:And it roars as in its denRoars a monster apt for blood.He must journey on this floodTo the harbour of his soul;He must seek his furthest goal,With an anchor round his neck,From yon tossing vessel’s deckCast to drown, when out at seaFull three miles that ship may be.And his fellow-exiles cry,“Let him not, Lord Jesus, die!”On the clouds the vessel is a spot.“Lord Jesus, save him!... Is there not,O brothers, in the sea retreat—Caught back, rolling from our feet,Not in waves, as under tide,But withdrawn on every side?Very solemn is this floor!We can see the waves no more.Let us follow them athwartSea-deeps with no waters fraught;Let us wipe our tears away,Let us take this holy way!Large the floor and larger still:Must the whole horizon fillWith a land of weed and shell,Where no billows native dwellAny more—we know not why:Any more, since we made cry?”As the sunset clears the sky,Yet across its wondrous spaceThere is one transcendent placeWhere the sun is laid to rest:So these mourners, strangely blessed—Over sand and coral cleanAnd unbroken shells, serene,With the peace where sea hath been,Over panting sea-stars bright,Silver-raying fishes, madFor the livesome brine they had—Come upon a Temple-grot,Set before them in a spotOf the naked desert, leftBy the ocean’s woof and weftOf the tidal streams withdrawn.There upon the sand, forlornIn its beauty, far remote,Stands a Temple-shrine, they noteOf the Holy Spirit’s dream....And they cross a little stream,Thrilling with the far-off sea;And they follow what must be,As they tread within the shrine,Builded marble for a signAngels had been set to buildOn a ground the ocean filled.In a tabernacle lies,Lone and grand to seeking eyes,Not the sunk sun, but a tomb,Whitest marble, and the roomOf the holy Clement dead.There he lies, how comforted!Through the mighty water broughtTo a peace, a harbour wroughtOf the holy Angels’ care.Close his anchor! He so stillAnd sufficed—the waves that killDriven away by angel-hands;While his people’s exile bandsKneel around him in the sea....Come to port, his anchor by!Thus the sun each day must die:Thus sweet Clement but one dayIn the sea sank down, and layAs at sunset, full of peace.They bear him to the land: and the flood-tides increase.
“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy! Save him, save!”—“Father, receive my spirit from the wave.”
Rolls the great Sea of the ChersoneseTossed and facing him and these....Cold in waters, high in heapAs a quarry should it sweepWith a landslip down on men:And it roars as in its denRoars a monster apt for blood.He must journey on this floodTo the harbour of his soul;He must seek his furthest goal,With an anchor round his neck,From yon tossing vessel’s deckCast to drown, when out at seaFull three miles that ship may be.And his fellow-exiles cry,“Let him not, Lord Jesus, die!”
On the clouds the vessel is a spot.“Lord Jesus, save him!... Is there not,O brothers, in the sea retreat—Caught back, rolling from our feet,Not in waves, as under tide,But withdrawn on every side?Very solemn is this floor!We can see the waves no more.Let us follow them athwartSea-deeps with no waters fraught;Let us wipe our tears away,Let us take this holy way!Large the floor and larger still:Must the whole horizon fillWith a land of weed and shell,Where no billows native dwellAny more—we know not why:Any more, since we made cry?”
As the sunset clears the sky,Yet across its wondrous spaceThere is one transcendent placeWhere the sun is laid to rest:So these mourners, strangely blessed—Over sand and coral cleanAnd unbroken shells, serene,With the peace where sea hath been,Over panting sea-stars bright,Silver-raying fishes, madFor the livesome brine they had—Come upon a Temple-grot,Set before them in a spotOf the naked desert, leftBy the ocean’s woof and weftOf the tidal streams withdrawn.
There upon the sand, forlornIn its beauty, far remote,Stands a Temple-shrine, they noteOf the Holy Spirit’s dream....And they cross a little stream,Thrilling with the far-off sea;And they follow what must be,As they tread within the shrine,Builded marble for a signAngels had been set to buildOn a ground the ocean filled.In a tabernacle lies,Lone and grand to seeking eyes,Not the sunk sun, but a tomb,Whitest marble, and the roomOf the holy Clement dead.There he lies, how comforted!Through the mighty water broughtTo a peace, a harbour wroughtOf the holy Angels’ care.Close his anchor! He so stillAnd sufficed—the waves that killDriven away by angel-hands;While his people’s exile bandsKneel around him in the sea....Come to port, his anchor by!Thus the sun each day must die:Thus sweet Clement but one dayIn the sea sank down, and layAs at sunset, full of peace.
They bear him to the land: and the flood-tides increase.