MARY MAGDALENE.

A coward heart I carry in my breast,
Think you the soldiers stern will let us put
These spices that we carry, in his grave,
Or will they drive us hence?
See how I start
If but the breeze shakes on my head,
From limb or vine, the heavy drops of dew—
Art weary Mary, weary and afraid?

MARY.

Nay, but so heavy-hearted, and so lost
To hope, so full of horrors was that day,
So full of grief, the mem’ry of it all
Will weigh upon me till my life is done.
And if I close my eyes, I see in dreams
His arms stretched out upon that cross so wide,
His head, His kingly head, crowned with the thorns.

MARY MAGDALENE.

Hush, Mary,
Or I drop upon the ground in weakness.
My friend! my tender, and my faithful friend!
When down thy forehead crept those crimson drops
The agony was more than I could bear.
’Tis said that Peter and the rest did sleep,
Did sleep and take their rest that last night in
Gethsemane, leaving Him there to keep
His watch alone. O, poverty of love!
Think, Mary, had we heard that sobbing prayer
Could we have slept and our Lord sorrowful?

MARY.

Nay, we would but have had one thought, to share
His grief, to comfort and to cheer,
But man
Is dull at conning tasks of tenderness,
He is well qualified to guard with sword,
But not to keep long watches in the night;
His, is the strength to fight, ours, is the strength
To wait, and waiting, hold our faith In love.
They loved Him well, but being men they slept.
A loneliness
Grows on me as the dawn
Lights hill and valley, and the fertile plain.
His feet have pressed the paths, oft has He gone
Down this way to the gate, oft has He sought
The stillness, and the quiet of that mount
Lifting its head to heaven—Mount Olivet—
And always will there be on Calvary
The heavy shadow of a cross of wood,
And if a hardy flower blossomed there,
Blood red its hue would be.

MARY MAGDALENE.

Surely it shuddered as it felt His weight,
That heavy cross on which He hung till eve!
How could they plunge the spear into His side,
And mock at Him with all their cruel tongues?
O, Mary,
When I think of His dear hands
That ever held out succor to the lost,—
That ever touched to heal the sons of men,—
That ever took the burden and the pain
From heavy hearts—His strong and tender hands
That lifted up the fallen and the weak,
That dwelt in blessing on the little ones,
That broke the bread to feed a multitude,—
Wounded and hurt, the sharp nails through each palm,
My heart, it breaks with pity and with woe!

MARY.

I wonder if he saw us standing there,
So weak, and helpless, and so buffeted.
One soldier pulled the covering from my head,
Another scoffed, ‘O woman ye are fools!’
And yet another, ‘Look now at your King!’
I cared not, nay, was glad to feel that we
Shared in his trial, feared not their contempt,
I hope He saw us, that He understood
That love and faith were one with such as we.
When He cried out, I thought upon a day
When He did come to rest Himself with us,
The harvest fields were yellow, and the sun
Beat down so fiercely that it hurt the head
Of Ruth’s fair little one. ‘The pain!’ he cried,
‘The pain! the pain!!’ with hot tears on his cheek,
And Ruth did lift him up and run with him
To where the Master was, who pushed the curls
Back with His hands and touched the forehead white,
The crying ceased, the quiver left the eyes,
The pallor crept away from off the cheek—
He fell asleep, a smiling, healthy child.

MARY MAGDALENE.

And I thought of a day when He did meet
A woman, in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the life filled full of shame,
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the hatred of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she. O, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And little children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And took her hand in His, and what He said
Is past the telling; there are things the soul
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world.
And when He went His way, upon her brow
Where shame had lain, set the sweet word, Forgiveness.
And Mary Magdalene
Did follow Him, led by a wondrous love,
Did wash His tender feet with grateful tears,
And wipe them with the soft hairs of her head.

MARY.

Joseph of Arimathea laid his form
In a new tomb. I tremble as we come
So near! and tell me, do you note a light,
Fairer than dawn, is cast on all things here.
Behold! one sits upon the stone, robed all
In white, a wondrous radiance on His face,
I fear and am perplexed. Let us go back.

MARY MAGDALENE.

Nay, we must put these spices in His grave—
My fears have gone and left me strong and bold,
Let us advance and question him, for he
Is some good angel keeping watch and ward,
It may be he has caused the heavy stone
To roll away that we might enter in
With love’s last offering. What doth he say?

MARY.

He says that Jesus is alive to-day,
And bids us come and see the empty grave,
O, what a joy, if this were only true!
But, ’tis too great a mystery. Come hence,
Someone hath borne away our Lord,
To wrest from us the sorrowful delight
Of looking on His face, dead, with the lines
Of mortal agony on brow and lips,
Oh, Mary Magdalene, the world’s strong hate
Might well have spared us this last cruel blow!

MARY MAGDALENE.

But it may be
The angel tells us true,
And that He has arisen from the grave,
And is alive to love and keep His own—
O, blessed hope! which all my being yearns
To grasp and hold—for if He is alive,
It means that you, and I, and all that love
And hold their faith in Him, can never die.

MARY.

I never understood what He did mean
By Life Eternal. So many things I had
Hid in my heart to ask Him.

MARY MAGDALENE.

Look how the sunshine sweeps down on the world!
There never was a yesterday so fair,
Something within me answers to the glow—
And answers to the glad songs of the birds—
And something seems to call out sweet and clear
The night is gone—is gone! the night is gone!!

MARY.

I am amazed! the tears have quickly dried upon your cheek.
I thought your grief was strong,
Too strong to lose itself in Nature’s smile,
The dazzling sunlight, and the song of birds,
The fair——

MARY MAGDALENE.

Hush! ’tis our Lord himself who comes this way,
The wounds made by the thorns still on His brow,
His hands and feet marked with the cruel nails.

MARY.

It is the Master and my fears are gone—
O, hark! He speaks. How often have we heard
That voice so filled with peace and tenderness?
Dear Lord, we fall and worship at Thy feet.

MARY MAGDALENE.

O risen Son of God!
Give me one hand pierced on the cross for me,
That I may place it on my heart and say,
For my transgression was He wounded sore,
Bruised, shamed, and hurt for my iniquity.

MARY.

We walked, O Master, in a maze of doubt,
Misgiving, grief, and great perplexity,
Knowing not where to turn, what to believe,
Then, through the tumult did we hear Thee say,
‘All Hail!’ O, words of cheer! O, greeting, glad!

MARY MAGDALENE.

These words shall be a song—a song of joy
For a sad world to sing, a glorious song
Of triumph, and immortality,
The glad notes shall ring clearly up to heaven,
And echo down through hell. All Hail!
The Son of God
Hath left the grave and given us Life,
All Hail!

Who was it told
Her such a fair untruth—a pretty lie?
A mist fell down upon the wooded hills,
And crept from thence out over all the sea,
Her soft eyes caught it in their depth and held
It prisoner, till presently it grew
Too strong and subtle for the wide white lids
Which made but timid trembling sentinels,
And let it slip to liberty unchallenged.
The light unfeeling waves about her feet
Laughed at her grieving over such a thing—
Laughed, calling to her as they rushed and ran,
“O pretty little one!
That one bright day
Didst think thyself so wise—didst count thyself
So rich? O foolish, foolish child, to weep
And break thy little heart o’er something that
Is not—has never been, save, in thy thought!”

The west wind sighed to the sea that night,
“’Tis a thought to give one sorrow,
The poppy boasts of her pearls of white,
The lover his store of dear delight,
But neither whispers to-morrow.”

So plies her remedies with wondrous skill,
And talks the while of pleasant homely things—
The tasks that tarry for my getting well,
The garden showing plainly my neglect,
The swarming bees, the apple trees in bloom,
The lonesome collie blinking in the sun,
The filly being broken for the plough,
My southdown sheep, the green of barley fields,
My neighbors, and the daily wish that I
Might soon be out among them as of old.

This is the sort of nurse a sick man needs,
Not one who is forever breathing sighs,
And talking of the emptiness of life,
And urging one to wean his thoughts from earth,
Nor care a jot for life, since it is such
An empty, barren, disappointing thing.
Life! why, ’tis God’s good gift to each of us,
And some, I think, show much ingratitude
By slurring it forever with the wish
That they were rid of it for good and all.

Now, you have mortgages, and deeds, and bonds,
You have a lordly mansion of your own,
While I—I have a big old-fashioned house,
And a few fields. You sometimes look at me
And sigh to think I am not better off
In this world’s goods. Old friend I like you well
And would not have you waste your pity so;
Why, man, I’m all amazed that you are not
Quite envious of me, since I have got—
What you do lack—a daughter of my own.

It makes a man feel rich to have a girl
Like mine to pet and make ado of him,
To come about him with her tender ways,
And cozening, and pretty tricks of speech,
To cry a little when he goes away,
To watch for his return with eager eyes,
To come to him with laughter on her lips—
Ay, and sometimes a pout that shows itself
But to be kissed away—to keep his heart
From growing old with all the years that pass.

I would not give this little Eve of mine
For twenty times her weight in solid gold,
’Tis a good world—you do not wonder now
That I’m so jolly and content alway;
You’re sighing like a furnace—’tis too bad!
I wish, old friend, you were as rich as I—
With such a glad young thing to come and lay
Her rosy cheek to yours when you are sad!
The man who has no daughter of his own
Is such a pauper, I could cry for him.

Old England warms now, through and through,
The rugged thing is full of love,
And pregnant with the thoughts that move
The great soul of a nation true,
Whom God’s hand hath been leading on
Through all the centuries dim and grey,
From ages dark, to dusk of dawn,
And then to full and perfect day.
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!

And green-clad Erin lifts her voice—
Full sweet the words ring on her tongue—
She will be always fair and young—
And always ready to rejoice.
The lochs, the streams, the granite hills,
Of bonnie Scotland are aglow,
(Stronghold of loyalty you know)
And to the sky the paean thrills:
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!

East, West, North, South, it seems to float,
And pulses stir, and mem’ries wake,
“For God and merrie England’s sake,”
How oft has rung that battle note!
But ah, a grander measure moves
This glad old world of ours to-day,
Rings through the wilds—through palm tree groves
And rugged north lands far away:
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!

Rings through the solitudes so lone,
Through places all aglow with bloom,
Through dim, waste tracts where lurks the gloom—
From Southern shores to Arctic Zone.
O mighty Empire, stretching far,
On solid, grand, foundations laid,
In love with peace, yet not afraid
To meet, if needs, grim visaged war.
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea:
God save our Good Victoria!

Australia hears it as she stands
Fanned by the sea-winds all around,
And sends a voice to swell the sound
From fertile fields and pasture lands.
In Canada—blest spot of earth—
Joy revels on this perfect day,
And all aflame with pride of birth,
She sings out in her lusty way;
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE;
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!

The shadows long ago have fled,
Her song goes ringing clear and sweet,
From the Atlantic at her feet,
To the Pacific at her head;
From meadow wide, from forest tall,
From hill-top high and valley deep,
From rapids with their whirling sweep,
From river, lake, and waterfall:
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!

O Queen! we could not give thee less,
Well hast thou earned by noble thought,
By noble deeds thy hand hath wrought,
Our homage—and our tenderness.
Thy mother heart must thrill and move
To note the gladness of the time,
Hear thy name sung in every clime
By voices solemn—sweet with love.
It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!

“Now Dora, we shall see,” I said,
“The Persian violet lift her head,
Blaze out in purple and in red!

The people seek her eagerly,
A rare aristocrat is she,
Proud of her fame as proud can be.”

“So many tongues, her praises sing,”
Said Dora, “through the world they ring,
She looks a heartless haughty thing.”

“Her country cousins sweet and shy,
That get their color from the sky,
Are fairer than herself,” said I.

And last of all we came to where
The lilac and the primrose fair
Their breath threw on the heavy air.

My cousin slipped the rows between,
Where yellow blossoms made a screen
Of their own foliage thick and green.

“Ah! this,” she said, “is a surprise,
An English primrose”—soft her eyes,
“Mark what a beauty in it lies!”

“O, primroses!” in careless tone,
Said Nell, “I’ve often seen them grown
Much prettier than this small pale one.”

My cousin bent her soft white cheek
Against the blossoms, pale and meek,
And still she stood and did not speak.

I think a tear or two she shed,
Ere lifted was the golden head,
“Poor little homesick flowers!” she said.

“I wonder do you droop, and dream
Of fleecy cloud, and sunny gleam,
Of meadow wide, and laughing stream.

I wonder if you wait to hear
The children’s voices, shrill and clear—
Sweet! homesickness is hard to bear.”

Then, gave us all a half-shamed look,
Ah, I could read her like a book,
Her heart was in some old world nook.

“It wants to feel,” she said, “the touch
Of dew, and sunlight, and all such—
Of wind that fondles overmuch.

But by-and-by it will get bold,
And show you people all the gold
Its pretty heart does surely hold.”

Back at my side she took her place,
And looking at her, I could trace
An added sweetness in her face.

We came into the dusk and gloom,
Out of the glowing fragrant room,
Walled in and carpeted with bloom.

TO me, there comes a time in leafy June
When nature calls from wood, and stream, and field,
Calls low at dawn, calls loud and clear at noon,
Calls most persuasively when stars come out
Up in the blue, and other voices hush,
And Come! I hear her say, come out with me,
Come leave the low cramped rooms, the weary task,
Come take the path through meadow, and through wood,
Climb up the breezy hills and look abroad,
Climb down into the valleys deep and wide
And rest a space! There is no rest so full
As that which I will give you as you lie
On grassy knoll; I’ll give for lullaby
The rustle of the leaves tossed by the wind,
For covering the sunbeams meshed and snared
By waving boughs; I’ll fill your lungs with air
Made fragrant in the bowers I call my own.
Come! Come! I’ll keep you company, I have
A potion brewed, a wondrous healing thing,
Which brings forgetfulness of lurking care,
And rubs out from the mind the memory
Of loss, of striving and defeat—Come! Come!

I went, I left the city far behind,
I went because she called—my fair first love!
I went at sunrise that for one full day
I might be with her, thrill beneath her touch
As in the long ago when she did claim
The full affection of my untried youth.

O freshness, living freshness of a day
In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight
And not a stain of wear shows on the grass
Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls,
“Our day of loveliness is past and gone!”
I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells,
The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks,
The wild flowers found the sunlight where they stood,
And some hid their white faces quite away,
While others lifted up their starry eyes
And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze,
I revelled in the grandeur and the strength
Of towering trunks, and great wide-spreading limbs,
I revelled in the silence—far away
A noisy world I knew was waiting me,
But no sound from it reached me as I went
By tangled pathway through that wilderness.

At noon I came out to the fields, sat down
And ate my lunch with hearty appetite,
Just at the foot of a wide hill which hid
The highway quite from sight, and shut me in.

A meadow stretched itself out in the sun,
Each little blade of green did thrust its face
Up to the glow. The clover heads bent down
To let their visitors—the bees—pass out,
The heavy-footed honey bees. Ah, fond
Are they of the sweet juices stored in fragrant phials!
So fond, that in the breeze they smell them out
And straightway sally forth to taste the same,
And carry samples home. Down in the grass
A thousand insects hummed; a shallow stream
Laughed in the sunshine, speeding o’er the stones
To find the coolness of the shady wood.
The cattle laid their wide mouths to its breast
And slaked their thirst, and made their dappled sides
Swell out; then lowing forth their full content
They turned again to wade through knee-deep grass.
From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flew, with a call of love and joy,
That drew from her proved mate, perched on a bough
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
An answering note, replete with tenderness,
That sent the echo of its sweetness on
Into the dim old wood. A wild-rose spread
Its greenness o’er a corner of the fence,
And hung its tinted blossoms out to grace
The lowly spot, and make of it a bower.

But fairer than the meadow or the wood—
Than wild-rose blooming by the zig-zag fence—
Than nesting bird, or softly murmuring stream—
Than cattle standing knee-deep in the grass—
Than dew-washed fern, or golden-hearted flowers—
Fairer than sunbeam’s mesh or dappled shade—
Or aught that I had seen this day of days
Was she, the glad young thing whose buoyant feet
Trod the slim path which wound its changeful way
Down the tall hill, past alders all abloom.

A girl, a young girl, is a gracious sight,
A thing to make the eye light gaily up,
We see our youth in her—the joy of youth
Smiles out at us from her white-lidded eyes,
The careless grace of youth is on her lips,
The innocence of youth shines on her brow,
The prettiness of youth is on her cheek,
Her softness is the softness of a flower,
Her brightness and her beauty have the fresh
And healthy glow of morn. Her laughter stirs
A host of memories sleeping in our heart,
And makes a present hour of some far-off,
Some dear and half-forgotten yesterday.

I wonder if the day will ever come
When we will be so old—so old and dull
That we will listen to, yet never heed
The sweetest sound of all the sounds which ring
Out through this world’s big aisles—the rippling laugh
Which comes from red young lips—comes straight from some
Rich storehouse in the breast, a storehouse filled
With gladness great, and hope, and all things good?

She stopped to pluck a bouquet for her gown
From the sweetbriar that nodded in the sun,
And presently I heard a little “Oh!”
Of pain. That hand of hers the briar in greed
Had caught, and held so closely that its mark
Showed plainly on the warm and pink-palmed thing.
But she did pluck it, and its fragrance found
A place among the white folds at her neck,
And in the silken girdle which did creep
About the rounded slimness of her waist.

Then down she sat to rest her for awhile,
And I could hear her crooning to herself:

“O Sweetbriar, growing all alone
In shady, lonesome places,
By all but sun and dew unknown,
How full you are of graces!

O Sweetbriar, with your fragrance rare
You woo me to come nigh you,
Your breath so fills the heavy air
I cannot well pass by you!

O Sweetbriar, growing by the brook
The sleek, fat cattle wade in,
Say, will you share your cozy nook
With me—a happy maiden?

O Sweetbriar, do the dew-drops fall
And make your soft leaves glisten?
O Sweetbriar, does the west wind call,
And do you wait and listen?”