PILATE'S WIFE.

Strangely thy whispered message ran,

Almost in form behest!

Why came in dreams the low-born man

To part thee from thy rest?

It may be that some spirit fair,

Who knew not what must be,

Fled in the anguish of his care

For help for him to thee.

But rather would I think thee great;

That rumours upward went,

And pierced the palisades of state

In which thy rank was pent;

And that a Roman matron thou,

Too noble for thy spouse,

The far-heard grandeur must allow,

And sit with pondering brows.

And so thy maidens’ gathered tale

For thee with wonder teems;

Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale

Returneth in thy dreams.

And thou hast suffered for his sake

Sad visions all the night:

One day thou wilt, then first awake,

Rejoice in his dear light.