Where's the man could hold from weeping, If Christ's mother he saw keeping Watch with mother-heart undone? Who could hold from grief, to view her, Tender mother true and pure, Agonising with her Son? For her people's sins she saw Him Down the bitter deep withdraw Him 'Neath the scourge and through the dole! Her sweet Son she contemplated Nailed to death, and desolated, While He breathed away His soul. E.B.B. BALLAD--_Beginning of Edward II.'s Reign_ 'Stand up, mother, under cross, Smile to help thy Son at loss. Blythe, O mother, try to be!' 'Son, how can I blythely stand, Seeing here Thy foot and hand Nailèd to the cruel tree?' 'Mother, cease thy weeping blind. I die here for all mankind, Not for guilt that I have done.' 'Son, I feel Thy deathly smart. The sword pierces through my heart, Prophesied by Simeon.' 'Mother, mercy! let me die, Adam out of hell to buy, And his kin who are accurst.' 'Son, what use have I for breath? Sorrow wasteth me to death-- Let my dying come the first.' 'Mother, pity on thy Son! Bloody tears be running down Worse to bear than death to meet!' 'Son, how can I cease from weeping? Bloody streams I see a-creeping From Thine heart against my feet.' 'Mother, now I tell thee, I! Better is it one should die Than all men to hell should go.' 'Son, I see Thy body hang Foot and hand in piercèd pang. Who can wonder at my woe?' 'Mother, now I will thee tell, If I live, thou goest to hell-- I must die here for thy sake.' 'Son, Thou art so mild and kind, Nature, knowledge have enjoined I, for Thee, this wail must make.' 'Mother, ponder now this thing: Sorrow childbirth still must bring, Sorrow 'tis to have a son!' 'Ay, still sorrow, I can tell! Mete it by the pain of hell, Since more sorrow can be none.' 'Mother, pity mother's care! Now as mother dost thou fare, Though of maids the purest known.' 'Son, Thou help at every need All those who before me plead-- Maid, wife--woman, everyone.' 'Mother, here I cannot dwell. Time is that I pass to hell, And the third day rise again.' 'Son, I would depart with Thee. Lo! Thy wounds are slaying me. Death has no such sorrow--none.' When He rose, then fell her sorrow. Sprang her bliss on the third morrow. A blythe mother wert thou so! Lady, for that selfsame bliss, Pray thy Son who peerless is, Be our shield against our foe. Blessed be thou, full of bliss! Let us not heaven's safety miss, Never! through thy sweet Son's might. Jesus, for that selfsame blood Which Thou sheddest upon rood, Bring us to the heavenly light. * * * * * _To Mrs. Martin_