MARY MAGDALENE.

With eyes aglow, and aimless zeal,

Throughout the land she goes;

Her tones, her motions, all reveal

A mind without repose.

She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea,

By madness tortured, driven;

One hour's forgetfulness would be

A gift from very heaven.

The night brings sleep, the sleep distress;

The torture of the day

Returns as free, in darker dress,

In more secure dismay.

No soft-caressing, soothing palm

Her confidence can raise;

No eye hath loving force to calm

And draw her answering gaze.

He comes. He speaks. A light divine

Dawns gracious in thy soul;

Thou seest love and order shine,—

His health will make thee whole.

One wrench of pain, one pang of death,

And in a faint delight,

Thou liest, waiting for new breath,

For morning out of night.

Thou risest up: the earth is fair,

The wind is cool and free;

As when a dream of mad despair

Dissolves in ecstasy.

And, pledge of life and future high,

Thou seest the Master stand;

The life of love is in his eye,

Its power is in his hand.

What matter that the coming time

Will stain thy virgin name;

Attribute thy distress to crime

The worst for woman-fame;

Yea, call that woman Magdalen,

Whom slow-reviving grace

Turneth at last from evil men

To seek the Father's face.

What matters it? The night is gone;

Right joyous shines the sun;

The same clear sun that always shone

Ere sorrow had begun.

Oh! any name may come and bide,

If he be well content

To see not seldom by his side

Thy head serenely bent.

Thou, sharing in the awful doom,

Wilt help thy Lord to die;

And, mourning o'er his empty tomb,

First share his victory.