XXXI. WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary's house returned, Was this demanded, if he yearned To hear her weeping by his grave? "Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were filled with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crowned The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unrevealed ; He told it not; or something sealed The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, Then one deep love doth surpersede All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O THOU that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reached a purer air, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister, when she prays, A life that leads melodious days. Her faith through form is pure as thine, O, sacred be the flesh and blood See, thou that countest reason ripe XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is ; This round of green, this orb of flame, In some wild Poet, when he works What then were God to such as I? 'T were hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die ; 'T were best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness, and to cease. XXXV. YET if some voice that man could trust The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Might I not say, yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive? But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be; And Love would answer with a sigh, "The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half dead to know that I shall die." |