XXXI.

WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave,

And home to Mary's house return'd,
Was this demanded-if he yearn'd

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 fill'd with joyful sound,

A solemn gladness even crown'd

The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!

The rest remaineth unreveal'd;

He told it not; or something seal'd

The lips of that Evangelist.

XXXII.

HER eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits

But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede

All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,

And rests upon the Life indeed.

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 reach'd a purer air,

Whose faith has centre everywhere,

Nor cares to fix itself to form,

Leave thou thy sister when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;

Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse

A life that leads melodious days.

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine,

Her hands are quicker unto good.

Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine!

See thou, that countest reason ripe
In holding by the law within,

Thou fail not in a world of sin,

And ev'n for want of such a type.

XXXIV.

My own dim life should teach me this,
That life shall live for evermore,

Else earth is darkness at the core,
And dust and ashes all that is;

This round of green, this orb of flame,
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks

In some wild Poet, when he works
Without a conscience or an aim.

What then were God to such as I?

'Twere hardly worth my while to choose

Of things all mortal, or to use

A little patience ere I die;

'Twere 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

Should murmur from the narrow house:

The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies nor is there hope in dust:

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 Eonian 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.'