Scattering wide or blown in ranks, Yellow and white and brown, Boats and boats from the fishing banks Come home to Gloucester town. There is cash to purse and spend, There are wives to be embraced, Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, And hearts to take and keep to the end,-- O little sails, make haste! But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbor town for thee? What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, Shall crowd the banks to see? Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly? Or shall a haggard ruthless few Warp her over and bring her to, While the many broken souls of men Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do? GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT At last the bird that sang so long In twilight circles, hushed his song: Above the ancient square The stars came here and there. Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed, But some amid the waiting crowd Because of too much youth Felt not that mystic ruth; And of these hearts my heart was one: Nor when beneath the arch of stone With dirge and candle flame The cross of passion came, Did my glad spirit feel reproof, Though on the awful tree aloof, Unspiritual, dead, Drooped the ensanguined Head. To one who stood where myrtles made A little space of deeper shade (As I could half descry, A stranger, even as I), I said, "These youths who bear along The symbols of their Saviour's wrong, The spear, the garment torn, The flaggel, and the thorn,-- "Why do they make this mummery? Would not a brave man gladly die For a much smaller thing Than to be Christ and king?" He answered nothing, and I turned. Throned in its hundred candles burned The jeweled eidolon Of her who bore the Son. The crowd was prostrate; still, I felt No shame until the stranger knelt; Then not to kneel, almost Seemed like a vulgar boast. I knelt. The doll-face, waxen white, Flowered out a living dimness; bright Dawned the dear mortal grace Of my own mother's face. When we were risen up, the street Was vacant; all the air hung sweet With lemon-flowers; and soon The sky would hold the moon. More silently than new-found friends To whom much silence makes amends For the much babble vain While yet their lives were twain, We walked along the odorous hill. The light was little yet; his will I could not see to trace Upon his form or face. So when aloft the gold moon broke, I cried, heart-stung. As one who woke He turned unto my cries The anguish of his eyes. "Friend! Master!" I cried falteringly, "Thou seest the thing they make of thee. Oh, by the light divine My mother shares with thine,