Back to the ark, the waters o'er, The primal dove pursued her flight: A branch of that blest tree she bore Which feeds the Church with holy light. I heard her rustling through the air With sliding plume--no sound beside, Save the sea-sobbings everywhere, And sighs of that subsiding tide. {66} _Magnificat._ XX. She took the timbrel, as the tide Rushed, refluent, up the Red Sea shore: "The Lord hath triumphed," she cried: Her song rang out above the roar Of lustral waves that, wall to wall, Fell back upon the host abhorred: Above the gloomy watery pall, As eagles soar, her anthem soared. Miriam, rejoice! a mightier far Than thou, one day shall sing with thee! Who rises, brightening like a star Above yon bright baptismal sea? That harp which David touched who rears Heaven-high above those waters wide? The Prophet-Queen! Throughout all years She sings the Triumph of the Bride! {67} _Mystica._ XXI. As pebbles flung for sport, that leap Along the superficial tide, But enter not those chambers deep Wherein the beds of pearl abide; Such those light minds that, grazing, spurn The surface text of Sacred Lore, Yet ne'er its deeper sense discern, Its hails of mystery ne'er explore. Ah! not for such the unvalued gems; The priceless pearls of Truth they miss: Not theirs the starry diadems That light God's temple in the abyss! Ah! not for such to gaze on her That moves through all that empire pale; At every shrine doth minister, Yet never drops her vestal veil. "The letter kills." Make pure thy Will; So shalt thou pierce the Text's disguise: Till then, revere the veil that still Hides truth from truth-affronting eyes. {68} _Expectatio._ XXII. A sweet exhaustion seems to hold In spells of calm the shrouded eve: The gorse itself a beamless gold Puts forth:--yet nothing seems to grieve. The dewy chaplets hang on air; The willowy fields are silver-grey; Sad odours wander here and there;-- And yet we feel that it is May. Relaxed, and with a broken flow, From dripping bowers low carols swell In mellower, glassier tones, as though They mounted through a bubbling well. The crimson orchis scarce sustains Upon its drenched and drooping spire The burden of the warm soft rains; The purple hills grow nigh and nigher. {69} Nature, suspending lovely toils, On expectations lovelier broods, Listening, with lifted hand, while coils The flooded rivulet through the woods. She sees, drawn out in vision clear, A world with summer radiance drest, And all the glories of that year Which sleeps within her virgin breast. {70} XXIII. Still on the gracious work proceeds;-- The good, great tidings preached anew Yearly to green enfranchised meads, And fire-topped woodlands flushed with dew.