Classic Poem

I

And didst thou die, dear Mother of our Life?
Sin had no part in thee; then how should death?
Methinks, if aught the great tradition saith
Could wake in loving hearts a moment's strife
(I said — my own with her new image rife),
'Twere this. And yet, 'tis certain, next to faith,
Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath;
Though after the seventh sword, no meaner knife
Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did: no sting
Of pain was there; but only joy. The love,
So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained
From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing;
Thy body, soon to reign with it above,
Radiant and fragrant, as in trance, remained.

II

Yes , Mother of God, though thou didst stoop to die,
Death could not mar thy beauty. On thy face
Nor time, nor grief had wrinkle left, or trace;
It had but aged, in God-like majesty;
Mature, yet, save the Mother in thine eye,
As maiden-fresh as when, of all our race,
Thou, first and last, wast greeted " Full of grace" —
Ere thrice five years had worshipped and gone by
Mortal thy body; yet it could not know
Mortality's decay. Like sinless Eve's,
It waited but the change on Thabor shown:
And when, at thy sweet will, 'twas first laid low,
Untainted as a lily's folded leaves
It slept — the angels watching by the stone.

III

" A T thy sweet will." Then, wherefore didst thou will
To pass death's portal? To the outward ear
There comes no answer; but the heart can hear.
Thy Son had passed it. Thou, upon " the Hill
Of Scorn," hadst stood beside the cross; wouldst still
" Follow the Lamb where'er he went." Of fear
Thou knewest naught. The cup's last drop, so dear
To him, thy love must share — or miss its fill.
But more — thy other children, even we,
Must enter life through death. And couldst thou brook
To watch our terrors at the dark unknown,
Powerless to stay us with a sympathy
Better than any tender word, or look —
Bidding our steps tread firmly in thine own?