She was a Nothing that in Him A creature's sole perfection found; She was the great Rock's shadow dim; She was the Silence, not the Sound. She was the Hand of Earth forthheld In adoration's self-less suit; A hushed Dependence, tranced and spelled, Still yearning toward the Absolute. Before the Power Eternal bowed She hung, a soft Subjection mute, As when a rainbow breasts the cloud That mists some mountain cataract's foot. She was a sea-shell from the deep Of God--her function this alone-- Of Him to whisper, as in sleep, In everlasting undertone. This hour her eyes on Him are set: And they who tread the earth she trod With nearest heart to hers, forget Themselves in her, and her in God. II. MATER FILII. He was no Conqueror, borne abroad On all the fiery winds of fame, That overstrides a world o'erawed To write in desert sands his name. No act triumphant, no conquering blow Redeemed mankind from Satan's thrall: By _suffering_ He prevailed, that so His Father might be all in all. {63} His Godhead, veiled from mortal eye, Showed forth that Father's Godhead still, As calm seas mirror starry skies Because themselves invisible. Thus Mary in "the Son" was hid: Her motherhood her only boast, She nothing said, she nothing did: Her light in His was merged and lost. III. Nazareth; or, The Hidden Greatness Ever before his eyes unsealed The Beatific Vision stood: If God from her that splendor veiled Awhile, in Him she looked on God. The Eternal Spirit o'er them hung Like air: like leaves on Eden trees Around them thrilled the viewless throng Of archangelic Hierarchies. Yet neither He Who said of yore, "Let there be light!" and all was Day, Nor she that, still a creature, wore Creation's Crown, and wears for aye, To mortal insight wondrous seemed: The wanderer smote their lowly door, Partook their broken bread, and deemed The donors kindly--nothing more. In Eden thus that primal Pair (Undimmed as yet their first estate) Sat, side by side, in silent prayer-- Their first of sunsets fronting, sat. And now the lion, now the pard, Piercing the Cassia bowers, drew nigh, Fixed on the Pair a mute regard, Half-pleased, half-vacant; then passed by. Aubrey De Vere. Feast Of The Assumption, 1867. -------- {64} Our Boy-Organist. What He Saw, And What Came Of It. "How was it, doctor, that you first thought about it?"