Another lily through the darkness peers,
Borne by seraphic fingers. Let me tell
Thy courteous patience of this miracle.
I, sailing round the ether of a star,

Bound on some heavenly mission thence afar,
Saw far beneath me, most sublimely winging,
A fiery spirit, who with speed and singing
Mounted the air that kindled as he came ;
Soon at my side his webs of crimson flame
He furl'd, and with a greeting full of grace
Hover'd beside me in that silent place;

Before his breast he held a lily tall

Whose flowers were purest white, save where did fall

Faint rose reflection from his shadowing wings;

And still he brooded with low murmurings

Over the stainless petals, and did press
Them to his lips with ardent tenderness.

Soon to my wondering ears he did unfold

The strangest story angel ever told !

Great was the grace, but ah! my clouded brain
Made all that rare narration void and vain;

For, till this hour, I never knew aright

The mysteries which thy kindness has made bright.

It seems, that day, he, sent by God Most High,

Had sought a maiden of mortality,

To say that she, a virgin undefil'd,

Should be the mother of a wondrous Child.

He found her in a garden wall'd and sure,
Fit emblem of her sweet life, calm and pure;
And in a vase before her door were set

Three lilies with the morning dew still wet.
His mission over, while the sudden news
Still did her cheeks with mantling flush diffuse,
He rose again to heaven, but bore away

One fragrant token of that solemn day.

No longer I must ponder this in vain,

The child was He who in this tomb is lain !

SER. But hark! what sound comes through the silent

air?

What men are these with foreheads bow'd and bare?

Surely this little troop was wont to follow

Christ's sacred footsteps over hill and hollow,

And, with more love than knowledge, faith than wit, Humbly, as listeners, round his feet to sit.

Down the hill, and by the garden, the DISCIPLES slowly puss,

singing:

Why should we weep and sorrow thus in vain?

Let us go back again

To those fair shores on which the wavelets break

Of Galilee's calm lake;

Once more the nets, once more the little boat,
Once more again to float

Across the silent water-ways that bore

Him we shall see no more.

Why did we ever leave those noiseless places,
To look on busy faces?

We will go back to our old trade again,
Nor fish for souls of men.

Ay me! He had a winning voice, and ways
Full of all love and grace!

None ever spoke such words as this Man said,
And lo! this Man is dead!

O thou rock-bulwark'd and imperial town,
Set on the high hill's crown!

Thou seem'st a lamp lit by pure seraphim,

Yet art a fen-fire dim!

I

O cruel city, blinded and undone!

This was the Spotless One:

This was the Man gentle and without stain,
Who now lies foully slain !

If ye must murder, was there then no death,

To take away his breath,

Less shameful than this doom of thief and slave? Than this dishonour'd grave?

Ah! we are simple folk, and cannot know

The reason of each blow;

We see full little, yet to our poor eyes
This is not just or wise.

Now all the wishes of our lives are dead,
With this thorn-crowned head;

If anything could cheer our sad hearts yet,
It would be, to forget!

O calm, cold eyes, and sweet and silent mouth,

Parched with a deadly drouth!

O sacred Master, whom we lov'd so well!

For evermore, farewell!

As they depart, SALOME and MARY MAGDALENE timidly

approach.

M. M. Now these are gone, Salome, let us see

Where they have laid Him!

SAL.

Can it, can it be,

That Jesus, lovely Master, lies alone,

Beneath the pressure of that great white stone?

M. M. My heart is there! I feel the bitter weight! Oh! hold my hands till this sharp grief abate! Salome, I could kill myself for sorrow: The dismal night-time has a darker morrow. Each day brings fresh despair; I feel within, What brought this woe upon Him was my sin; And Hope is gone for ever.

SAL.

Joy is gone,

But Hope, dear sister, kneeling at God's throne,

May not be thrust away. Hope is a lute

That gives sweet songs out, when the birds are

mute,

In wintry weather. Though the Lord is dead,

Are not His words to be remembered?