I think of thee when the myrrh-dropping morn Steps forth upon the purple eastern steep; I think of thee in the fair eventide, When the bright-sandalled stars their watches keep. And trembling hope, and fainting, sorrowing love, On thy dear word for comfort doth rely; And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze, Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh. Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees, All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn, With whom my heart went upward, as they rose, Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn. All sinless now, and crowned, and glorified, Where'er thou movest move they still with thee, As erst, in sweet communion by thy side, Walked John and Mary in old Galilee. But hush, my heart! 'Tis but a day or two Divides thee from that bright, immortal shore. Rise up! rise up! and gird thee for the race! Fast fly the hours, and all will soon be o'er. Thou hast the new name written in thy soul; Thou hast the mystic stone he gives his own. Thy soul, made one with him, shall feel no more That she is walking on her path alone. MARY AT THE CROSS. "Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother." O wondrous mother! Since the dawn of time Was ever joy, was ever grief like thine? O, highly favored in thy joy's deep flow, And favored e'en in this, thy bitterest woe! Poor was that home in simple Nazareth, Where thou, fair growing, like some silent flower, Last of a kingly line,--unknown and lowly, O desert lily,--passed thy childhood's hour. The world knew not the tender, serious maiden, Who, through deep loving years so silent grew, Filled with high thoughts and holy aspirations, Which, save thy Father, God's, no eye might view. And then it came, that message from the Highest, Such as to woman ne'er before descended; Th' almighty shadowing wings thy soul o'erspread, And with thy life the Life of worlds was blended. What visions, then, of future glory filled thee, Mother of King and kingdom yet unknown-- Mother, fulfiller of all prophecy, Which through dim ages wondering seers had shown! Well did thy dark eye kindle, thy deep soul Rise into billows, and thy heart rejoice; Then woke the poet's fire, the prophet's song Tuned with strange, burning words thy timid voice. Then in dark contrast came the lowly manger, The outcast shed, the tramp of brutal feet; Again, behold earth's learned, and her lowly, Sages and shepherds, prostrate at thy feet. Then to the temple bearing, hark! again What strange, conflicting tones of prophecy Breathe o'er the Child, foreshadowing words of joy, High triumph, and yet bitter agony.