and Mother seem;
A twisted thorn-branch and a cross to them
Are manifest--His throne and diadem.

High heaven open stands, and there a crowd
Of worshippers with love-lit eyes appear,
Like stars down-gazing through a fleecy cloud,
Dimly discerned as morning draweth near
Spreading a radiant pall upon night's bier.
The blessed thing the Sign doth signify
They partly know, and are made glad thereby.

But more the Mother knows, and more she sees
Than soaring angel or than climbing saint;
Her heart familiar grown with mysteries
Of God's own working under love's constraint,
The remedy she knows for man's complaint.
The clouds are all beneath her, and above
The light of life, the radiancy of love.

And He, Whom Lord of love and life we hail,
Is on her bosom borne, a blossom fair;
The pentecostal breath that lifts her veil
Has fanned His royal brow, and stirred His hair,
And kissed His lips just parted for a prayer.
That spirit-wind shall blow, that Face shall shine,
Till all His brothers know their Father's Sign.

DRESDEN: 1883.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _See_ Note A, page 69.

_BETHLEHEM GATE._

A PICTURE BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.[2]

Of old through gates that closed on them
Two exiles went with eyes downcast;
The Present now retrieves the Past,
God's Eden is in Bethlehem.

An Eden that no walls enclose
By Mary's arms encompassed,
A living shrine, a 'house of bread,'
A very haven of repose.

Behold the Prince of Peace! around
His cradle angry tempests rage;
He needs must go on pilgrimage,
An exile, homeless and discrowned.

And yet, His Rank to designate,
The unquenched Star of Bethlehem
Shines forth, a radiant diadem;
While Angels on His footsteps wait.

E'en now the Father's Face they see,
A triumph-song e'en now they sing,
And, wondering and worshipping,
Attend His Pilgrim-Family.

Two guard the frowning gateway: one
Is of a solemn countenance;
To him a rapid backward glance
Reveals a massacre begun.

The other, forward gazing, sees
The glory of the age to come,
The fruitfulness of martyrdom,
Of deaths that are nativities.

O weeping mothers, dry your tears!
The Mother whom this canvass shows
Nor fears, nor weeps, although she knows
An anguish deeper than your fears.

She knows a comfort deeper still
For all who fare