GEORGE ELIOT.

At evening once, the lowly men who loved

Our Master were found desolate, and grieved

For Him whose eyes had been the glory of

Their lives. He, silent, followed them, and joined

Himself unto their sorrow; with the voice

Of love that liveth past the end, and yearns

Like empty arms across the sepulchre,

Did comfort them. They heard, and knew Him not.

At eventide, O Lord, one trod for us

The solitary way of a great Soul;

Whereof the peril, pain, and debt, alone

He knows, who marked the road.

We watched, and held

Her in our arms of prayer. We wept, and said:

Our sister hath a heavy hurt. We bow,

And cry: The crown is buried with the Queen.

At twilight, as she, groping, sought for rest,

What solemn footfall echoed down the dark?

What tenderness that would not let her go?

And patience that Love only knoweth, paced

Silent, beside her, to the last, faint step?

What scarred Hand gently caught her as she sank?

Thou being with her, though she knew Thee not.