‘Thine is the victory, Meina!’--Was it won? Won in its cold, bereaving cruelty? Won from the pride of woman? from her love? Won from thy boy! young mother? No! oh, no! She had forgotten him! He was too young, Too purely, beautifully young, to die! And then the waves repeated to the shore, And the light echo heard it: ‘Give him up!’ And Meina heard it: ‘Give him to thy God!’ And the strong heart arose! One arrowy pulse Of an acuter agony than death; One fearful shiver at the searching thrill, And she had won--aye, with her glorious boy Upon her very breast--the victory! Oh! let the erring oftener be forgiven, That, in the shadowy twilight of the mind, They stray a little from the perfect way! If there is evidence in silent leaves, And the still waters, of a present God, And all who hear not messages of grace, Must gather from its dim and hidden words Their better solaces; remember ye Who reckon lightly of the poor Hindoo, That, in the scattering of the leaves of life, His page was written more imperfectly. The beautiful sun arose, and there was not A stain upon the sky; the virgin blue Was delicate as light; and, as the east Eclipsed night’s pale and starry jewelry, The pure intensity of noon stole on, Like the soft deepening of a northern eye. ‘Come! my own glorious boy!’ and forth he sprang, As he had been created of the morn A spirit and an element of light. ‘Come! Come!’ and he was bounding airily Beside his stately mother, laughing out His lisping prattle of the promised boat, As if her words had been in playfulness, ‘That the bright waves should float him on to heaven.’ The morning mist stole up, as Meina knelt To offer him to God. Her eyes were dim; But her fine forehead, and her calm, still lip, Were fearfully subdued; and as the cloud Which clothes the lightning slumbers, so they slept. Her soul was in its strength. She held her boy Upon her bosom, till she felt the throb Of his warm pulses numbered on her heart, And her low, leaden cadences, kept on! His silken hair, as delicately soft As the light wind that stirred it, floated up, As if to plead at her transparent cheek; But she had wooed its kisses till it came To be a fond idolatry, and now She nerved her as the strong heart answered it. And the low words broke severally on, Distinctly as a common orison! There is a period in the wreck of hopes By the affections garnered, calmer far Than an untried serenity. It comes With the stern conflict ever, and awaits The passage of that hour, as if the soul Were girded, and had championed suffering; And it is strange, how a weak human heart Will thus be quiet like a hushing storm, And, with a fetter on its pulses, wait To measure spirits for the mastery!