A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 36

The night brings sleep, the sleep distress; The torture of the day Returns as free, in darker dress, In more secure dismay.

No soft-caressing, soothing palm Her confidence can raise; No eye hath loving force to calm And draw her answering gaze.

He comes. He speaks. A light divine Dawns gracious in thy soul; Thou seest love and order shine,-- His health will make thee whole.

One wrench of pain, one pang of death, And in a faint delight, Thou liest, waiting for new breath, For morning out of night.

Thou risest up: the earth is fair, The wind is cool and free; As when a dream of mad despair Dissolves in ecstasy.

And, pledge of life and future high, Thou seest the Master stand; The life of love is in his eye, Its power is in his hand.

What matter that the coming time Will stain thy virgin name; Attribute thy distress to crime The worst for woman-fame;

Yea, call that woman Magdalen, Whom slow-reviving grace Turneth at last from evil men To seek the Father's face.

What matters it? The night is gone; Right joyous shines the sun; The same clear sun that always shone Ere sorrow had begun.

Oh! any name may come and bide, If he be well content To see not seldom by his side Thy head serenely bent.

Thou, sharing in the awful doom, Wilt help thy Lord to die; And, mourning o'er his empty tomb, First share his victory.

XIII.

THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE.

A still dark joy. A sudden face, Cold daylight, footsteps, cries; The temple's naked, shining s.p.a.ce, Aglare with judging eyes.

With all thy wild abandoned hair, And terror-pallid lips, Thy blame unclouded to the air, Thy honour in eclipse;

Thy head, thine eyes droop to the ground, Thy shrinking soul to hide; Lest, at its naked windows found, Its shame be all descried.

Another shuts the world apart, Low bending to the ground; And in the silence of his heart, Her Father's voice will sound.

He stoops, He writes upon the ground, From all those eyes withdrawn; The awful silence spreads around In that averted dawn.

With guilty eyes bent downward still, With guilty, listless hands, All idle to the hopeless will, She, scorn-bewildered, stands.

Slow rising to his manly height, Fronting the eager eyes, The righteous Judge lifts up his might, The solemn voice replies:

(What, woman! does He speak for thee?

For thee the silence stir?) "Let him who from this sin is free, Cast the first stone at her!"

Upon the death-stained, ashy face, The kindling blushes glow: No greater wonder sure had place When Lazarus forth did go!

Astonished, hopeful, growing sad, The wide-fixed eyes arose; She saw the one true friend she had, Who loves her though He knows.

Sick womanhood awakes and cries, With voiceless wail replete.

She looks no more; her softening eyes Drop big drops at her feet.

He stoops. In every charnel breast Dead conscience rises slow.

They, dumb before the awful guest, Turn one by one, and go.

They are alone. The silence dread Closes and deepens round.

Her heart is full, her pride is dead; No place for fear is found.

Hath He not spoken on her side?

Those cruel men withstood?

Even her shame she would not hide-- Ah! now she _will_ be good.

He rises. They are gone. But, lo!

She standeth as before.

"Neither do I condemn thee; go, And sin not any more."

She turned and went. The veil of tears Fell over what had been; Her childhood's dawning heaven appears, And kindness makes her clean.

And all the way, the veil of tears Flows from each drooping lid; No face she sees, no voice she hears, Till in her chamber hid.

And then returns one voice, one face, A presence henceforth sure; The living glory of the place, To keep that chamber pure.

Ah, Lord! with all our faults we come,-- With love that fails to ill; With Thee are our accusers dumb, With Thee our pa.s.sions still.

Ah! more than father's holy grace Thy lips and brow afford; For more than mother's tender face We come to Thee, O Lord!

XIV.

MARTHA.

With joyful pride her heart is great: Her house, in all the land, Holds Him who conies, foretold by fate, With prophet-voice and hand.

True, he is poor and lowly born: Her woman-soul is proud To know and hail the coming morn Before the eyeless crowd.

At her poor table will He eat?

He shall be served there With honour and devotion meet For any king that were.

'T is all she can; she does not fail; Her holy place is his: The place within the purple veil In the great temple is.

But many crosses she must bear, Straight plans are sideways bent; Do all she can, things will not wear The form of her intent.

With idle hands, by Him unsought, Her sister sits at rest; 'Twere better sure she rose, and wrought Some service for their guest.

She feels a wrong. The feeling grows, As other cares invade: Strong in her right, at last she goes To claim her sister's aid.