To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes,
Though their external shining testifies
To that beatitude within, which were
Enough to blast an eagle at his sun.
I fall not on my sad clay face before ye;

I look on His. I know
My spirit which dilateth with the woe

Of His mortality,

May well contain your glory.

Yea, drop your lids more low. Ye are but fellow-worshippers with me!

Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One!

v.

We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem. The dumb kine from their fodderturning them,

Softened their horned faces

To almost human gazes

Towards the newly Born. The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks

Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonished hearing rung

The strange, sweet angel-tongue. The magi of the East, in sandals worn,

Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards their gifts upon the ground,

The incense, myrrh and gold, These haby hands were impotent to hold.

So, let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state!
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

vt.

I am not proud—meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest

On mortal lips,—.* I am not proud'—not proud I

Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son,
Albeit over Him my head is bowed
Jls others bow before Him, still mine
heart

Bows lower than their knees. O centuries

That roll, in vision, your futurities
My future grave athwart,—

Whose murmurs seem to reach me while
I keep
Watch o'er this sleep,—

Say of me as the Heavenly said,—' Thou art

The blessedest of women !'— blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest—no high name. Whose height misplaced may pierce me

like a shame. When I sit meek in heaven!

vtt.

For me—for me— God knows that I am feeble like the rest!—

I often wandered forth, more child than maiden,

Among the midnight hills of Galilee,

Whose summits looked heaven-laden; Listening to silence as it seemed to be God's voice, so soft yet strong—so fain to press

Upon my heart as Heaven did on the height.

And waken up its shadows by a light, And show its vileness by a holiness. Then I knelt down most silent like the night,

•Too self-renounced for fears, Raising my small face to the boundless blue

Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears.

God heard them falling after—with His dew.

vm.

So, seeing my corruption,' can I see
This Incorruptible now born of me—
This fair new Innocence no sun did
chance

To shine on, (for even Adam was no child,)

Created from my nature all defiled, This mystery from out mine ignorance— Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more

Than others do, or / did heretofore ?— Can hands wherein such burden pure has been,

Not open with the cry 'unclean unclean !*

More oft than any else beneath the skies?

Ah King, ah Christ, ah son! The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise.

Mast all less lowly wait
Than I, upon tby state !—
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

iX.

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His
universe,
Come, crown me Him a king!
Pluck rays from all such stars as never

Their light where fell a curse. And make a crowning for this kingly brow !—

What is my word? — Each empyreal •star

Sits in a sphere afar

In shining ambuscade:

The child-brow, crowned by none,

Keeps its unchildlike shade.

Sleep, sleep, my crownleis One!

Unchildlike shade !—no other babe doth wear

An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.— No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen,

To float like speech the speechless lips

between; No dovelike cooing in the golden air. No quick short joys of leaping babyhood.

Alas, our earthly good In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee: Yet, sleep, my weary One!

Xi.

And then the drear sharp tongue of prophecy.

With the dread sense of things which

shall be done, Doth smite me inly, like a sword—a

sword ?—

(That 'smites the Shepherd !') then, I

think aloud The words 'despised,' — 'rejected,' —

every word Recoiling into darkness as I view

The Darling on my knee. Bright angels,—move not!—lest ye stir

the cloud Betwixt my soul and His futurity!

I must not die, with mother's work to do.

And could not live—and see.

Xtt.

It is enough to bear This image still and fair— This holier in sleep. Than a saint at prayer: This aspect of a child Who never sinned or smiled— This presence in an infant's face: This sadness most like love. This love than love more deep, This weakness like omnipotence, It is so strong to move! Awful is this watching place, Awful what I see from hence— A king, without regalia, A God, without the thunder, A child, without the heart for play; Ay, a Creator rent asunder From his first glory and cast away On His own world, for me alone To hold in hands created, crying—Son!

Xitt.

That tear fell not on Thee Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in tby slumber!

Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out of number

Which through the vibratory palm trees run

From summer wind and bird,
So quickly hast Thou heard
A tear fall silently ?—
Wak'st Thou, O loving One ?—

MEMORY AND HOPE.
i.

Back-looking Memory
And prophet Hope both sprang from

out the ground: One, where the flashing of Cherubic

sword

Fell sad, in Eden's ward; And one, from Eden earth, within the sound

Of the four rivers lapsing pleasantly,

What time the promise after curse was
said—

'Tby seed shall bruise his head.'
it.

Poor Memory's brain is wild.
As moonstruck by that flaming

atmosphere When she was born. Her deep eyes shine and shone With light that conquereth sun And stars to wanner paleness year by year:

With odorous gums, she mixeth things defiled:

She trampleth down earth's grasses green and sweet With her far-wandering feet.

itt.

She plucketh many flowers, Their beauty on her bosom's coldness killing:

She teacheth every melancholy sound

To winds and waters round; She droppeth tears with seed where

man is tilling The rugged soil in his exhausted hours: She smileth—ah me! in her smile doth

go

A mood of deeper woe!

iv.

Hope tripped on out of sight Crowned with an Eden wreath she saw

not wither. And went a-nodding through the wilderness

With brow that shone no less Than a sea-gull's wing, brought nearer

by rough weather; ,Searching the treeless rock for fruits of

light;

Her fair quick feet being armed from stones and cold, By slippers of pure gold.

v.

Memory did Hope much wrong And, while she dreamed, her slippers stole away;

But still she wended on with mirth

unheeding, Although her feet were bleeding; Till Memory tracked her on a certain

day,

And with most evil eyes did search her long

And cruelly, whereat she sank to ground In a stark deadly swound.

vi.

And so my Hope were slain. Had it not been that Thou wert

standing near. Oh Thou, who saidest' live ' to creaftires

lying

In their own blood and dying! For Thou her forehead to thine heart didst rear

And make its silent pulses sing again,— Pouring a new light o*er her darkened eyne.

With tender tears from Thine!

vtt.

Therefore my Hope arose From out her swound, and gazed upon

Tby face; And, meeting there that soft subduing look

Which Peter's spirit shook. Sank downward in a rapture to embrace Tby pierced hands and feet with kisses close,

And prayed Thee to assist her evermore To ' reach the things before.'

viti.

Then gavest Thou the smile Whence angel-wings thrill quick like

summer lightning, Vouchsafing rest beside Thee, where she never From Love and Faith may sever; Whereat the Eden crown she saw not whitening

A time ago, though whitening all the while,

Reddened with life, to hear the Voice which talked To Adam as he walked.