A Hidden Life and Other Poems

IV.

THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN

"Bestow her prayer, and let her go;  She crieth after us."Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so;  Help not a woman thus.Their pride, by condescension fed,  He speaks with truer tongue:"It is not meet the children's bread  Should to the dogs be flung."She, too, shall share the hurt of good,  Her spirit, too, be rent,That these proud men their evil mood  May see, and so repent.And that the hidden faith in her  May burst in soaring flame,From childhood truer, holier,  If birthright not the same.If for herself had been her prayer,  She might have turned away;But oh! the woman-child she bare  Was now the demon's prey.She crieth still; gainsays no words  Contempt can hurt withal;The daughter's woe her strength affords,  And woe nor strength is small.Ill names, of proud religion born,  She'll wear the worst that comes;Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,  To share the healing crumbs.And yet the tone of words so sore  The words themselves did rue;His face a gentle sadness wore,  As if He suffered too.Mother, thy agony of care  He justifies from ill;Thou wilt not yield?—He grants the prayer  In fullness of thy will.Ah Lord! if I my hope of weal  Upon thy goodness built,Thy will perchance my will would seal,  And say: Be it as thou wilt.

V.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN

Away from living man's abode  The tides of sorrow sweep,Bearing a dead man on the road  To where the weary sleep.And down the hill, in sunny state,  Glad footsteps troop along;A noble figure walks sedate,  The centre of the throng.The streams flow onward, onward flow,  Touch, waver, and are still;And through the parted crowds doth go,  Before the prayer, the will."Weep not, O mother! Young man, rise!"  The bearers hear and stay;Up starts the form; wide flash the eyes;  With gladness blends dismay.The lips would speak, as if they caught  Some converse sudden broke,When echoing words the dead man sought,  And Hades' silence woke.The lips would speak. The eyes' wild stare  Gives place to ordered sight;The low words die upon the air—  The soul is dumb with light.He brings no news; he has forgot;  Or saw with vision weak:Thou seest all our unseen lot,  And yet thou dost not speak.It may be as a mother keeps  A secret gift in store;Which if he knew, the child that sleeps,  That night would sleep no more.Oh, thine are all the hills of gold!  Yet gold Thou gavest none;Such gifts would leave thy love untold—  The widow clasps her son.No word of hers hath left a trace  Of uttered joy or grief;Her tears alone have found a place  Upon the holy leaf.Oh, speechless sure the widow's pain,  To lose her only boy!Speechless the flowing tides again  Of new-made mother's joy!Life is triumphant. Joined in one  The streams flow to the gate;Death is turned backward to the sun,  And Life is hailed our Fate.

VI.

THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND

For eighteen years, O patient soul,  Thine eyes have sought thy grave;Thou seest not thy other goal,  Nor who is nigh to save.Thou nearest gentle words that wake  Thy long-forgotten strength;Thou feelest tender hands that break  The iron bonds at length.Thou knowest life rush swift along  Thy form bent sadly low;And up, amidst the wondering throng  Thou risest firm and slow,And seëst him. Erect once more  In human right divine,Joyous thou bendest yet before  The form that lifted thine.O Saviour, Thou, long ages gone,  Didst lift her joyous head:Now, many hearts are moaning on,  And bending towards the dead.They see not, know not Thou art nigh:  One day thy word will come;Will lift the forward-beaming eye,  And strike the sorrow dumb.Thy hand wipes off the stains of time  Upon the withered face;Thy old men rise in manhood's prime  Of dignity and grace.Thy women dawn like summer days  Old winters from among;Their eyes are filled with youthful rays,  The voice revives in song.All ills of life will melt away  Like cureless dreams of woe,When with the dawning of the day  Themselves the sad dreams go.O Lord, Thou art my saviour too:  I know not what my cure;But all my best, Thou, Lord, wilt do;  And hoping I endure.

VII.

THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD

Near him she stole, rank after rank;  She feared approach too loud;She touched his garment's hem, and shrank  Back in the sheltering crowd.A trembling joy goes through her frame:  Her twelve years' fainting prayerIs heard at last; she is the same  As other women there.She hears his voice; He looks about.  Ah! is it kind or goodTo bring her secret sorrow out  Before that multitude?With open love, not secret cure,  The Lord of hearts would bless;With age-long gladness, deep and sure,  With wealth of tenderness.Her shame can find no shelter meet;  Their eyes her soul appal:Forward she sped, and at his feet  Fell down, and told Him all.His presence made a holy place;  No alien eyes were there;Her shamed-faced grief found godlike grace;  More sorrow, tenderer care."Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole;  Go, and be well, and glad."Ah, Lord! if we had faith, our soul  Not often would be sad.Thou knowest all our hidden grief  Which none but Thee can know;Thy knowledge, Lord, is our relief;  Thy love destroys our woe.

VIII.

THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES

Here much and little change their name  With changing need and time;But more and less new judgments claim,  Where all things are sublime.Sickness may be more hale than health,  And service kingdom high;Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth,  To give like God thereby.Bring forth your riches,—let them go,  Nor mourn the lost control;For if ye hoard them, surely so  Their rust will reach your soul.Cast in your coins; for God delights  When from wide hands they fall;But here is one who brings two mites,  "And yet gives more than all."She heard not, she, the mighty praise;  Went home to care and need:Perchance the knowledge still delays,  And yet she has the meed.

IX.

THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM

They give Him freely all they can,  They give Him clothes and food;In this rejoicing, that the Man  Is not ashamed they should.Enough He labours for his hire;  Yea, nought can pay his pain;The sole return He doth require  Is strength to toil again.And this, embalmed in truth, they bring,  By love received as such;Their little, by his welcoming,  Transformed into much.

X.

PILATE'S WIFE

Strangely thy whispered message ran,  Almost in form behest!Why came in dreams the low-born man  To part thee from thy rest?It may be that some spirit fair,  Who knew not what must be,Fled in the anguish of his care  For help for him to thee.But rather would I think thee great;  That rumours upward went,And pierced the palisades of state  In which thy rank was pent;And that a Roman matron thou,  Too noble for thy spouse,The far-heard grandeur must allow,  And sit with pondering brows.And so thy maidens' gathered tale  For thee with wonder teems;Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale  Returneth in thy dreams.And thou hast suffered for his sake  Sad visions all the night:One day thou wilt, then first awake,  Rejoice in his dear light.

XI.

THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA

The empty pitcher to the pool  She bore in listless mood:In haste she turned; the pitcher full  Beside the water stood.To her was heard the age's prayer:  He sat upon the brink;Weary beside the waters fair,  And yet He could not drink.He begged her help. The woman's hand  Was ready to reply;From out the old well of the land  She drew Him plenteously.He spake as never man before;  She stands with open ears;He spoke of holy days in store,  Laid bare the vanished years.She cannot grapple with her heart,  Till, in the city's bound,She cries, to ease the joy-born smart,  "I have the Master found."Her life before was strange and sad;  Its tale a dreary sound:Ah! let it go—or good or bad,  She has the Master found.

XII.

MARY MAGDALENE

With eyes aglow, and aimless zeal,  Throughout the land she goes;Her tones, her motions, all reveal  A mind without repose.She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea,  By madness tortured, driven;One hour's forgetfulness would be  A gift from very heaven.The night brings sleep, the sleep distress;  The torture of the dayReturns 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 graceTurneth 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 contentTo 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 space,  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 passions 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 proudTo know and hail the coming morn  Before the eyeless crowd.At her poor table will He eat?  He shall be served thereWith 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.Ah, Martha! one day thou like her,  Or here, or far beyond,Will sit as still, lest, but to stir,  Should break the charmed bond.

XV.

MARY

1.

She sitteth at the Master's feet  In motionless employ;Her ears, her heart, her soul complete  Drinks in the tide of joy.She is the Earth, and He the Sun;  He shineth forth her leaves;She, in new life from darkness won,  Gives back what she receives.Ah! who but she the glory knows  Of life, pure, high, intense;Whose holy calm breeds awful shows,  Transfiguring the sense!The life in voice she drinks like wine;  The Word an echo found;Her ear the world, where Thought divine  Incarnate was in sound.Her holy eyes, brimful of light,  Shine all unseen and low;As if the radiant words all night  Forth at those orbs would go.The opening door reveals a face  Of anxious household state:"Car'st thou not, Master, for my case,  That I alone should wait?"Heavy with light, she lifts those eyes  To Him who calmly heard;Ready that moment to arise,  And go, before the word.Her fear is banished by his voice,  Her fluttering hope set free:"The needful thing is Mary's choice,  She shall remain with me."Oh, joy to every doubting heart,  Doing the thing it would,If He, the Holy, take its part,  And call its choice the good!

2.

Not now as then his words are poured  Into her lonely ears;But many guests are at the board,  And many tongues she hears.With sacred foot she cometh slow,  With daring, trembling tread;With shadowing worship bendeth low  Above the godlike head.The sacred chrism in snowy stone  A gracious odour sends.Her little hoard, so slowly grown,  In one full act she spends.She breaks the box, the honoured thing!  The ointment pours amain;Her priestly hands anoint her King,  And He shall live and reign.They called it waste. Ah, easy well!  Their love they could endure;For her, her heart did ache and swell,  That she forgot the poor.She meant it for the coming crown;  He took it for the doom;And his obedience laid Him down,  Crowned in the quiet tomb.

XVI.

THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER

She washes them with sorrow sweet,  She wipes them with her hair;Her kisses soothe the weary feet,  To all her kisses bare.The best of woman, beauty's crown,  She spends upon his feet;Her eyes, her lips, her hair, flung down,  In one devotion meet.His face, his words, her heart had woke.  She judged Him well, in sooth:Believing Him, her bonds she broke,  And fled to Him for truth.His holy manhood's perfect worth  Redeems the woman's ill:Her thanks intense to Him burn forth,  Who owns her woman still.And so, in kisses, ointment, tears,  And outspread lavish hair,An earnest of the coming years,  Ascends her thankful prayer.If Mary too her hair did wind  The holy feet around;Such tears no virgin eyes could find,  As this sad woman found.And if indeed his wayworn feet  With love she healed from pain;This woman found the homage meet,  And taught it her again.The first in grief, ah I let her be,  And love that springs from woe;Woe soothed by Him more tenderly  That sin doth make it flow.Simon, such kisses will not soil;  Her tears are pure as rain;Her hair—'tis Love unwinds the coil,  Love and her sister Pain.If He be kind, for life she cares;  A light lights up the day;She to herself a value bears,  Not yet a castaway.And evermore her heart arose,  And ever sank away;For something crowned Him o'er her woes,  More than her best could say.Rejoice, sweet sisters, holy, pure,  Who hardly know her case:There is no sin but has its cure,  But finds its answering grace.Her heart, although it sinned and sank,  Rose other hearts above:Bless her, dear sisters, bless and thank,  For teaching how to love.He from his own had welcome sad—  "Away with him," said they;Yet never lord or poet had  Such homage in his day.Ah Lord! in whose forgiveness sweet,  Our life becomes intense!We, brothers, sisters, crowd thy feet—  Ah! make no difference.THE END

1

Jaws: English, breakers.

2

        In a lovely garden walking,          Two lovers went hand in hand;        Two wan, sick figures, talking,          They sat in the flowery land.        On the cheek they kissed each other,          And they kissed upon the mouth;        Fast clasped they one another—          And back came their health and youth.         Two little bells rang shrilly,          And the dream went with the hour:        She lay in the cloister stilly,          He far in the dungeon-tower.

Translated from Uhland.

3

John Sterling.