May Carols Part 19

As one stone-blind that fronts the morn, The world before her Maker stood, Uplifting suppliant hands forlorn-- G.o.d's creature, yet how far from G.o.d!

He came. That world His priestly robe; The Kingly Pontiff raised on high The wors.h.i.+p of the starry globe:-- The gulf was bridged, and G.o.d was nigh.

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x.x.x.

A woman "clothed with the sun," [Footnote 8]

Yet fleeing from the Dragon's rage!-- The strife in Eden-bowers begun Swells upward to the latest age.

[Footnote 8: Rev. xii. 1.]

That woman's Son is throned on high; The angelic hosts before Him bend: The sceptre of His empery Subdues the worlds from end to end.

Yet still the sword goes through her heart, For still on earth His Church survives.

In her that woman holds a part: In her she suffers, wakes, and strives.

Around her head the stars are set; A dying moon beneath her wanes: But he that letteth still must let: The Power accurst awhile remains.

Break up, strong Earth, thy stony floors, And s.n.a.t.c.h to penal caverns dun That Dragon from the pit that wars Against the woman and her Son!

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x.x.xI.

No ray of all their silken sheen The leaves first fledged have lost as yet Unfaded, near the advancing queen Of flowers, abides the violet.

The rose succeeds--her month is come:-- The flower with sacred pa.s.sion red: She sings the praise of martyrdom, And Him for whom His martyrs bled.

The perfect work of May is done: Hard by a new perfection waits:-- The twain, a sister and a nun, A moment parley at the grates.

The whiter Spirit turns in peace To hide her in the cloistral shade:-- 'Tis time that you should also cease, Slight carols in her honour made.

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EPILOGUE.

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_Epilogue_

Regent of Change, thou waning Moon, Whom they, the sons of night, adore, Her feet are on thee! Late or soon Heap up upon the expectant sh.o.r.e

The tides of Man's Intelligence; Or backward to the blackening deep Remit them: Knowledge won from Sense But sleeps to wake, and wakes to sleep.

Where are the hands that reared on high Heaven-threat'ning Babel? where the might Of them, that giant progeny, The Deluge dealt with? Lost in night.

The child who knows his creed doth stretch A sceptred hand o'er s.p.a.ce, and hold The end of all those threads that catch In wisdom's net the starry fold.

The Sabbath comes: the work-days six Of Time go by; meantime the key, O salutary crucifix, Of all the worlds, we clasp in thee.

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Truth deeplier felt by none than him [Footnote 9]

Who at the Alban mountain's foot, Wandering no more in shadows dim, Lay down, a lamb-like offering mute.

[Footnote 9: Robert Isaak Wilberforce.]

His mighty lore found rest at last In Faith, and woke in G.o.d. Ah, Friend!

When life which is not Life is past, Pray that like thine may be my end.

Thy fair large front; thine eyes' grave blue; Thine English ways so staid and plain;-- Through native rosemaries and rue Memory creeps back to thee again.

Beside thy dying bed were writ Some s.n.a.t.c.hes of these random rhymes; Weak Song, how happy if with it Thy name should blend in after times.

Rome, April 27, 1857.