Book I. Mary Magdalene

Clear silver water in a cup of gold,
Under the sunlit steeps of Gadara,
It shines — His Lake —the Sea of Chinnereth —
The waves He loved, the waves that kissed His feet
So many blessed days. Oh, happy waves!
Oh, little, silver, happy Sea, far-famed,
Under the sunlit steeps of Gadara!
Fair is the scene still, tho' the grace is gone
Of those great times when nine white cities dipped
Their walls into its brink, and steel-shod keels
Of Roman galleys ground its sparkling sands;
And Herod's painted pinnaces, ablaze
With lamps, and brazen shields, and spangled slaves,

Came and went lordly at Tiberias;
And merchant-ships of Ghor, and fisher-boats,
From green Bethsaida and Chorazin, drove
Pearl-furrows in the sapphire of its sleep:
And, by its beach, — where the cranes wade mid-leg,
And long reeds lisp, and milky ripples roll
The purple-banded shells; and wind-fall'n flowers
Of date and oleander dye the rim
Of blown foam rosy, wended by, league-long,
The caravans of Egypt, treasure-stuffed,
To proud Damascus, or thronged Sepphoris,
Or Accho's quays. Or, Caesar's spearmen rode
Terrible with the eagles, bringing news
Of life and death from Rome. Or strode austere,
Contemptuous, flaunting phylacteries,
The Pharisee and Scribe. Or, noise of slaves,
Sweating beneath the litter's gilded poles,
Told where there passed some languid Palace dame
Fresh from the bath; or praetor, girt with rods:
Or there went by, upon its rocky brim,
The high-capped Median bringing stallions in;
The Indian traders with the spice and silk,
The negro-men from Gush, and Elamites,
And Bed Sea sailors, and from shores of Nile
The blue-gowned, swart, Egyptian; for they filled
From all Earth's regions, in those bygone days,
The pathways by its waters: frequent feet
Of Tyrian traders, and dark Desert-men
Rocking upon their camels, with wild eyes
Glittering like lance-points; and Sidonians,
Syrians and Greeks and Jews; a motley world
Treading th' enamelled borders, where the vines
Ran clustering, and the almond's crimson snow
Rained upon crocus, lily, and cyclamen
At feet of feathery palms, and tamarisks
Alive with doves and steel-bright halcyons.
And green and rich rose then the terraced fields
This coast and that; and loud the water-wheels
Poured the cool crystal of the stream and lake
Over a thousand gardens; and an air
Fresher than now;, with breath of moistened
growths —
Pomegranate, citron, fig — tempered the heats
Blown from the wilderness. And, more than now,
Beauteous the mountains soared, with girdling woods,
Homesteads, and villages, and melon-fields
Hanging between the rocks, and, side by side,
Temples of Jove and Pan, with synagogues
Of Israel's Jah. But, opening then, as now
To let swift Jordan stay "his eager flood
Under their sunny peaks, foregoing there
The speed he took from Hermon; glad to spread
Broadened to lake, fringed with wild figs, and flags,
Peopled with pelicans and fish; and fain,
A little, to forget how he must glide
From river into bitter, barren, mere;
Must pass, from waving willows, and cool nooks
Of water-lilies, to lie salt and dead,
Sucked by the Sun, under hot Edom's crags,
In that red hollow of the Sea of Lot.

Now all is changed — all save the changeless things —
The mountains, and the waters, and the sky —
These, as He saw them, have their glory yet
At sunrise, and at sunset; and when noon
Burns the blue vault into a cope of gold.
And ofttimes, in the Syrian Spring, steals back
Well-nigh the ancient beauty to those coasts
Where Christ's feet trod. That Lily which He
loved
And praised for splendour passing Solomon's —
The scarlet martagon — decks herself still,
Mindful of His high words, in red and gold,
To meet the step of Summer. Cyclamens
Lift their pale heads to see if He will pass;
And amaryllis and white hyacinths
Pour from their pearly vases spikenard forth,
Lest He should come unhonoured. In His paths
Still, as of old, the lowly crocus spreads
A golden carpet for Him; and the birds —
Small almoners of Heaven, as once He said,
Who fall not unregarded — trill their hymns
Of lively love and thanks in every thorn.
Only what Man could do, Man hath well done
To blot with blood and tears His track divine,
To sweep His holy footsteps from His Earth.
In steel and gold, splendid and strong and fierce,
Host after host under that Mount has marched
"Where He sate saying: "Blessed the peace-makers!"
In rage and hatred host with host has clashed
There where he taught, "Love ye your enemies!"
Banners which bore His cross, have mocked His cross,
Scattering His land with slain; till now, at last,
Truly the sword, not peace, is what He brought!
For love of Him nation hates nation so
That at His shrine the watchful Islamite
Guards Christian throats! Dead lie His once fair fields;
Barren the fallows where His Sower sowed;
None reaps the silver harvests of His Sea;
None in the wheat-row roots the ill tares out.
The hungry land gasps empty in the glare;
The vulture's self goes famished; the wolf prowls
Fasting, amid the broken stones which built
The cities of His sojourn. Wild birds nest
Where revels once were loudest. All are gone
Save for those names never to pass away —
Capernaum, Bethsaida, Magdala, —
The nine white towns that sate beside His Lake.
Vanished the stately stoas, lofty fanes;
Vanished the walls, the towers, the citadels!
Titus and Omar wrought fair Palestine
No hurt like His who gave her hallowed ground
The fatal benediction of His feet!
Love's house is desolate for love of Love!
The waters glass no sail; the ways have shrunk
Into a camel-path; the centuries
With flood and blast have torn the terrace bare
Where the fox Uttered in the grapes. Ask not
Which was "His City "'mid this ruined life!
None surely knoweth of Capernaum
Whether 'twas here, or there. Perchance He dwelt
Longest and latest at this nameless mound
Where, on the broken Column, nests the stork;
Where knot-grass with its spikes, and bitter balls
Of trailing colocynth, and nebbuk-thorns
Bind as they will the marble wrecks, and weave
Shelter for shy jerboas, and the snake.
So still, so far away, so quite forsook,
His City's burial-place, the painted grouse
Lays her eggs there in carved acanthus-leaves.
And crickets chirp where Caesar's year is writ.
Yon Arab, with the matchlock and the spear,
Glancing askance — for Afreets haunt the spot —
Murmurs: "Peace be to you! This is Tell-Hum!"

Desolate most of all, with one starved palm
And huddle of sad squalid hovels, thou,
El-Mejdel! burned a-dry beneath black crags,
Choked with thick sand, comfortless, poor, despised,
Who stretched beforetimes to the adjacent Lake
Proud fortress-arms, and — Lady of the plain, —
Holding the keys of glad Gennesaret,
Took tribute of all passers. Vainly praised
For thy strong Tower, — soaring so high, now laid
Lost in the dust — yet wert thou marked to live,
Stamped for immortal memory by one Name,
Hers who "loved much," and had her home in thee,
Mary of Magdala.

There 'twas I saw,
Or seemed to see, that night in Palestine,
Lodging in Mejdel, what is written now;
Lodging at Mejdel on a night of balm
When all the stars on high had sister-stars
Mirrored in Galilee's dark purple tide;
And the land lay, a-dream it lived again;
And all the past rolled back, and out of Heaven
Almost the fancy dared to hear that song:

Peace beginning to be,
Deep as the sleep of the sea,
When the stars their still gleams glass
In its blue tranquillity:
Hearts of all upon Earth,
From the First to the Second Birth,
To rest as the wild waters rest,
With colours of Heaven on their breast.

Love, which is sunlight of peace,
Age by age to increase,
Till Anger and Hate are dead,
And Sorrow and Death shall cease;
"Peace on Earth and Goodwill!"

Souls that are gentle and still
Hear the first music of this
Far-off, infinite bliss!

The third Spring after Jesus Christ had passed:
In the fifth moon, when Galilee is green,
And the palm shakes fresh feathers to the wind,
Came, through the gates of Magdala, at eve,
Spearmen and swordmen; and, on armoured steeds,
The Roman knights, and lictors with their rods;
The train of Pontius Pilate, moving North
To answer, before Caesar, wrongs alleged
In rescript of the Lord Vitellius,
Legate of Syria. On Gerizim's height
Grievously had he broke Samaria,
Chastising well, at first, rebellious folk;
But in his after wrath, it was put forth
He wronged the clemency of Home, and wrought
Treason to Caesar. "Therefore must he go
To meet, at throne-steps of Tiberius,
Those his accusers "— wrote Vitellius;
Thus 'twas the Procurator wended North.
And, as along the margin of the Lake
The wind swept cold, the Imperial Delegate
"Would that night, with his wife, lie in the
walls.
Thereat rose question where in Magdala
Meet room was for a Roman Consular
Of the high Samnite race of Telesine,
Judaea's Governor, thro' ten-strong years,
And, maybe, yet to rule all Syria,
If Caesar purges. Also, for his spouse
Procula; from the Claudian line; ill-apt
To couch patrician limbs in leathern tent,
Reared to the ivory and the gold, or share
Peasant's coarse shelter. And the townsmen said:
"One house we have where this great Lord might
lie
Between the walls of Magdala — might halt
Well-honoured. 'Tis the Lady Miriam's
Who dwelleth yonder by the north Sea-gate;
Yon stone Khan, with the carved door and the
palms.
Many fair chambers, and a garden-court
With marbles paved, and falling waters 'freshed,
And cedar work from Tyre, and well-girt slaves,
The Roman there shall find."

So it befell
That Pilate lodged with Mary Magdalene.

And there were those who heard what Pilate
spake,
Upon the leewan leaning sad that night,
Unlulled by lute, or Syrian dance, or plash
Of fountains tinkling on the painted stones.
For sleep came not; and she, beside him, said —
Claudia Procula — "My Lord doeth ill
To keep sick vigil, when soft beds are spread,
And guards are set, and even Galilee
Lends so fair shelter that henceforth in Rome
We shall think gentlier of th' injurious land."
"In Rome? Ah, Rome!" stern Pontius cried: "but
Rome
Held not my thought, great Claudia! nor these hogs
We herded with our spear-points, pricking them
Time after time to grunt. Caesar is just,
And Caesar will not judge me heedlessly —
Friend of Sejanus, and for ten years here
Keeping the heel of Rome on Herod's neck —
At word of vile Samaritans. But I
All day long, as we rode out from the plain
Of Esdraelon — from Samaria
To Nazareth; and, threading Nazareth,
With horse and foot and litters, clattered on
Under the Horns of Hattin, and so down,
Through that dark-shadowed Valley of the Dove,
To this green hollow, where the Jordan gains
Peace for a day, before he hastens on
To foam and fret and die — as rivers die,
And men die, — helplessly; I had in mind
The Man I did adjudge unrighteously.
Know'st thou, fair wife! that was His dwelling-place,
The poor, white, clustered town amid the hills
Where we clomb up from Kishon, and you saw
The hoopooes run in the rye — Solomon's birds,
Which knew the name of God! Would I had known
On that ill day at the Prsetorium!
By Pan! I tell thee all the way He came,
The pale, sweet Man; the Man that was 'the King,'
And did adjudge us, His judiciaries.
I saw Him at Gerizim, where I smote
Those dogs of Sychar — very pitiful
Marking the blood. And then, as if He paced
Effortless over bare Gilboa, 'twas He
Gazed on me at Megiddo, and Jezreel;
And Shunem and Chesulloth, always pale,
Always with that high look of godlike calm,
Those eyes of far perception — those mild eyes
I saw that morn in the Praetorium;
Accursed hour! — more in my thoughts than Rome! —
When Sanhedrists and Priests, with Caiaphas
To lead the learned rabble, broke my sleep,
And brought, that I should doom Him, that one Man
Whom, of all Jews, I hated not, nor scorned.
And when I asked, 'What accusation
Have ye against this One?' and bade them judge
According to their law (which — under Rome —
Held no more power to kill), they, wanting blood,
Must have me hear how He perverted minds,
Decried our tax, would pull the Temple down,
And make Himself a King. 'Sooth! to make Kings,
And unmake, was for Caesar's self alone;
Wherefore, to keep unbroke our Roman peace;
And yet to spare this Man, I led Him in
Away from those that clamoured, to my hall,
Thinking to clear Him, when His trembling lips,
Inside the Agrippeum, gave me ground
To make it good at Rome, and guard the peace,
Yet choke those hounds from their most innocent
prey.
But as I questioned Him upon these things,
And asked, "Art Thou, indeed, King of the Jews?"
Lo! He, with such a mien as one should have
Wearing the purple, spake full royally,
'Aye! as thou sayest, a King!' and, no word more!
Still I went on: 'Speakest Thou nought to me
Whose nod can send Thee hence to live or die?
Art thou King of the Jews? 'And the Man said,
'Yea! King! yet not of any earthly realm:
To this end was I born, and therefore came
King of all Kings, because I witness Truth.'
Then asked I, 'What is Truth?' He answered nought;
Or I was wroth, and hearkened not: hot scorn
Shook me, to hear that horde of circumcised
Howling for blood outside my Palace-gates.
So, yet anew, thinking to stay their lust
With some ignoble gobbet, I came forth
And from my Bema spake: 'Ye have the right
Now, at your Passover, that I release
Some one condemned: See! I set this Man free;
And give for your good sport another prey
Also called Jesus — Jesus Bar-Rabban!'
The vile herd shouted, 'Set us free the thief!''
And Claudia moaned: "I, too, remember well!
I saw Him from my lattice, and His eyes
Burned themselves on my heart. Truly a King
Of Truth — if anywhere such kingdom be!"

"By Hercules!" — the Roman yet went on —
"I would that I had hearkened, asking that
Which none hath answered; not the Samian;
Nor he of Citium; nor the oracles;
Nor any Augur, out of any bird;
Nor the high Flamens, nor dread Jove himself.
Who knows whence gleamed the lire of those strange
eyes
Which had no fear, nor any bitterness,
But seemed to look beyond us, glad to die?
They drove me forth again, angry and sick,
Crying: 'I find no fault in Him, at all!"
And Claudia sighed: "There was no fault at all! ''
"Thence sent I Him to Antipas. That fox
Worried with claws of spite my patient one
But would not bite. So came He back to me;
And — sitting there upon the Gabbatha,
With Rome and Justice by — I might have saved!
What was for me to fear? Thrice before that, —
Once — when I brought the silver eagles in,
Though all Jerusalem yelled at my gates;
Once, when I spent those pious shekels, stored
In their most holy treasury, to fetch
Fair water from the pools of Solomon,
That they might drink clean swill; and once again,
When I hung up, in the Herodeum,
The gilded shields of Caesar; I did set
These Jewish swine at nought. But then, oh, then!
I faltered, paltered, yielded; Claudia! yea,
I played worse traitor to my Roman soul
Than aught e'er done to Caesar. I, who read
That daybreak, on my scroll, how Socrates —
In the sweet Greek — with loftiest scorn of life —
Condemned the Athenian judges to live on,
And took, triumphant, from their guilty lips,
Gift of his hemlock! Oh, thou great, grave face!

That journey'dst with me all this mindful day,
Amid thy watching hills of Galilee;
Why did'st Thou not reply? I might have saved!
Why would' st Thou not reply? I would have saved!
Moreover, wife! did'st thou not send to me —
Me, whom my Father told of Julius,
And how he bled, and how Calphurnia dreamed —
That message of thy vision, saying, 'Lord!
Deal thou in nothing with that innocent one,
For I have suffered much in sleep this night
Because of Him? '':
And Claudia answered: "Aye!
I sent thee word: for, in the morning watch,
When dreams glide truest thro' Sleep's gate of horn,
There came upon mine eyes in slumber sealed,
Shadow or semblance of the fairest form,
Presence most sweet and most majestical,
Seen amongst men. Nay, not of men it seemed,
For white Apollo, in our Atrium,
Wrought of the Thracian marble, was to this —
The high gods pardon! — but a satyr! Blood
Crimsoned His brow in beaded drops, from where
A crown of thorns pricked deep; and bloody holes
Marked either open palm, and either foot.
Yet, by the exceeding gladness of His face;
By His assured, benign, serenity;
These were, I knew, to some royal rights He had
But as imperial purple. Ah, the ray
Shed from those gentle eyes, flushed my stilled soul
With such a glow of glory, such delight
Of sudden seeing, as if I had been
An Apennine, touched singly by the sun,
Dyed rose-red by some earliest shaft of Dawn,
While all the other peaks were dark, and slept.
But soon my greatness faded; while I stretched
Eager quick hands of worship unto Him,
And fell upon my knees, for love, and fear,
And reverence and wonder; lo! He spake
Solemnly, and in accent known, it seemed,
More to my heart than ear; not in our tongue,
Nor any tongue, except what stars, and seas,
And the low voice of Night will sometimes use;
Saying full mildly — or He seemed to say: —
'This morn, thy Lord — if Heaven's way changeth not —
Will wrongfully adjudge Me unto death
Who am the lover of men, of him, thee, all,
And come to be Beginning of a time
When Peace shall reign and men see Angels near,
And perfect Love shall cast out Fear, which hath
The torment. But, not knowing well of this,
They, of whose blood I am, will spill My blood;
And he, if this dream help not, shall abet,
Delivering Me to die upon the Cross
For policy and Caesar's Roman peace.
Whence, for all flesh deliverance, and the Light;
But for thee tears and woe, and for thy Lord
The burden of a shame, sinking his soul,
The burden of a name, intolerable,
Accurst thro' all the Ages, hated, scorned,
Long after I forgive and comfort him.
Wake from thy sleep, then; bid him list to thee
Saying what I have said!'

"So, with a start
I brake the bonds of slumber, and I heard, —
In place of that sweet voice, majestic, calm,
Making my terror tender — angry roars
As if of hungered beasts, men who cried out,
'Crucify this one; free us Bar-Rabban!'
And drawing nigh my latticed window, saw,
Oh, Jove! Him of my vision, passing down
Godlike, but not yet crowned with cruel thorns,
Nor pierced in hand or foot. What should it mean?
Was that — the Syrian with those searching eyes —
My Warner in the dream? Trembling to see,
I snatched my tablets, drove the point i' the wax
Hasteful, as thou didst note; and wrote the word
Eheu! thou would'st not heed!"

And Pontius bent
His proud brows down, and muttered: "On my heart
Thy stylus pricked — but vainly! Caesar's wrath
Were but the idle wind which stirs my hair,
If I had only back that Man, that hour!
Forever and forever have they passed;
And now, and yesterday, and all my days
Something which is not shame, and is not grief,
Nor womanish tenderness at blood and death —
Being soldier as I am, not apt to melt —
Nor penitence, strange to my Stoic mind
Which knows what hath been, must be; — but the pang
Of a strong spirit that betrayed itself;
Rage for the act reflection pardons not;
The sting of playing slave to Destiny;
Bite at my soul more sharp than fangs of those;
Whisper, as though to mock me from myself,
Mine own past words, the words I flung at them —
'That which is writ, is writ!' Thou wottest what fell:
The Patient One, who came to witness Truth,
To rule without a throne, — without — just gods! —
The Purple, or the Eagles, or the Spears —
Stood on my Paved Way, with their Cut-throat, there,
Side by side, nowise blenching; while they picked
A life to grace their festival Thou knowest
They chose Bar-Rabban. Thereupon I asked,
'What will ye that I do with this your King?'
They howled: 'The Cross! the Cross!' and I let go
Their leash, and He was scourged, and mocked, and
decked
With that sharp Crown thou sawest — gemmed with
blood,
As I do sadly mind — and, o'er His back
Some evil-witted Hebrew flung, in spite
A red paludamentum, laticlave
To robe His sovereignty. Yet, even thus,
Sick at the midriff with my wrath — I stood!
Something I risked to save myself and Him.
'Twas while they clamoured: 'Give the Man for
death!
'Tis due! He made Himself a Son of God!'
Was't, then, Apollo, masquing here below?
Or some Olympian? great Latona's son
At play-games 'midst us? and we scourging Him
That should have reared the altars? On such thought
Fain had I learned from those unlying lips
What it might mean; and drew Him in again,
To private speech, and questioned; 'Whence art Thou?'
No answer did He deign, till I had stormed:
'Answerest me nought, who have the power of Thee?'
High Jove! but then He answered, stripping me,
With sweet commanding scorn, of pride and might;
And making me, and Caesar, and our whips,
Blind bondsmen to some dread decree He knew
Driving us, like the moon which drags the tides,
Helplessly up and down the beach of things.
'Thou hast,' quoth He, 'no power of Me at all
Except it had been given thee from above:
Therefore is thy sin lighter! 'Seest thou, Wife?
Here was thy Galilaean pitied me!
Found for His hangman pleas! At that fresh speech
Stamping Him praetor, me His prisoner,
I had more will to ransom; and I spake
Leading Him forth again: 'He is your King!'
Hoarsely they hooted: 'Caesar is our King!
No King save Caesar! If thou let Him go
Thou art not Caesar's Friend! ''Twas there I failed!
They held so much against me; many griefs;
The last, that blood I mingled, over-hot,
With the fools' sacrifice. And then, at Rome
Our Emperor nursed some grudges. Nigh to fall
Was great Sejanus; and those Roman streets
To see the statues haled to the melting-pot,
That kitchen wenches might have pans and plates
From him that had stood second in our world.
I did not dare! the knaves my firm soul struck
Through that one corslet-joint I could not patch;
I did not dare! Me Miserum! I took
Water, and washed my hands before the herd,
And cried: 'The blame of this just blood be yours ''
The rabble answered: 'Yea! on us, on us,
And on our children be His blood! 'Oh, Dis!
'Grave those words deep on thy dark muniments,
If Hades be, and black assizes sit,
That, age by age, yon Hebrew priests may pay
Fair share of my accompt! I could not wash
My conscience clean! The water, to my eyes,
Ran foul and grimy to the golden bowl
From each palm, vainly laved. So did He pass
To lofty death, and I to life defamed.
What can they do, who hate me most, at Rome
One little part as deadly as this hurt
I wrought against myself?"

And Claudia groaned:
"He passed 'mid many portents — it was told.
Folks spake of darkness, earthquakes; in the midst
Of their proud Temple — in the Adytum —
The veil suddenly rent; of cries to Heaven
Uttered, and that way answered. Didst thou hear
The talk ran that He had not died at all,
Or, dying, glided back to life again;
Was seen; ate, drank, walked, talked — Man among
men —
Or if not Man (which could not be!) then shape,
Larva, or Lemur, or some unnamed thing,
Visible, seeming whatsoe'er Life seems;
And, lastly, 'scaped from sight? Those whom He left,
A band of honest ones, give stoutly forth
He was caught up in clouds, snatched to the Blue.

And, day by day, my slave-girls say, this grows, —
Making a sect, which hath no dread of Death;
But will spend life and breath, and gold, and pains
To succour any wretch; because they hold
This Christ did die for him — grows, good my Lord!
Not only here, but in the coasts, and Isles;
And toucheth Athens, and hath crept to Rome."
"There, too?" broke Pontius, "must I find at Rome, —
Despite the stony tomb, the guards we set,
My soldier's word; the spear, stabbed socket-deep, —
That face which fills each night with dreams for me?
Will He run over-sea whose tireless step
Outstrips my swiftest war-horse, mends my stride
On every march, pitches my camp with me,
Sits with me in my tent, my judgment-hall,
My banquet-room, my bed-place? watches me
With those great eyes which do not hate, nor blast,
But send a keen light to my inmost self
Where I read: 'This is Pontius, Fortune's slave
For Caesar's fear.' 'Sooth! why should I have played
Butcher to Caiaphas? Note, Claudia!
That blood of Julius, spilt to enfranchise Rome,
Bequeathed Augustus and Tiberius;
And this pure blood, belike, sown in Death's field,
May breed some different crop than peace and ease,
Things fall so wry with Earth, sometimes I think
Thy Galileean erred not; that men's powers
Are lent them out of some Imperium,
Shadowy, majestic, unopposable,
Wronging all wrongers till they render right,
'Stablished behind the Thrones; where Fate's pipe
blows
And we must dance the step, or be shoved by.
Know any of ye here of any wight
Who loved this Nazarene, and followed Him,
And cleaves, distraught, to such wild fancy yet
That Cross, and Spear, and grave-stone did not end?"

"Great Sir!" a Syrian hand-maid gave reply;
"This is the house is called 'Megaddela's,'
Named, as some will, from Magdal, where we lie;
And others from the braided locks she wore
Who lives House-mistress here; the long hair tressed
The Harlot's way. They told us, in the town,
This Dame, — much honoured now for noble works —
Was devil-haunted, and the wildest wench
Of Galilee, before the Nazarene

Tamed her, and taught her; and she grew His Friend,
Closest amid the faithful. Is't thy will
We bid her to the Presence?"

Pontius said:
"I might command, for still I bear my seal;
Authority sits yet upon my lip;
But here and now, I soften. Say to her
The Procurator, guest and friend, entreats
Speech with the Lady Miriam."

Thus met

She who most loved Him, he who rendered Him
To death: — Pontius and Mary! For, anon,
The bar slides backward of the Woman's Court,
And, on the stairway of the leewan, stood
One tall, and proud, and fair; albeit, past grief
Had dimmed the lustre of those large dark eyes
Bent upon Pilate. Rich the Jewish blood
Glowed through the sunburnt ivory of her face —
Unveiled for salutation — lending show
Of colour to the thinned uncoloured cheek,
But leaving pale as pearl-lined ocean shell
The full white neck, and — where neck rose to breast —
The tender margins of the bosom, bound
By silver-bordered cymar, crossed; — and pale
As moonlight's heart the low smooth forehead, framed
Under the black-waved hair; forehead and hair;
And eyebrows, bent like the new moon; full lids;
Silk lashes long and curved, shadowing with touch
Of softest melancholy that worn place
Where the tears gather — all declaring her
A Daughter of the Sun, in those climes born
Where light and life are larger. Ah, and marked
With stamp of those strong passions of the East
Where Nature has her pangs and throes not more
Than Man, cradled upon her burning breast,
Tender and quick. There are the Dawns of Love
Enkindling hearts with instant golden glow
Like morning in the desert; there Love's Noons
Consuming, all-revealing, shadowless;
With fiery fervour draining young hearts dry
As mid-day drinks the streams; and there Love's Eves
Swift-sinking from the fierce fit to the lull,
From sun-blaze, by brief dusk, to tranquil stars,
And satisfied, still Night. Earthquakes and floods,
Withering Simooms, and winds that tear the Seas
To milky madness; find their counterparts
In those own children of the Light, who live
And love and hate with pulse at quicker beat.
Such heart-storms gone on that high countenance
Had writ their passage, but not left her marred.
Rather, like some majestic Mount she showed
In Cathay or Japan, whose lofty bulk
Raged once, all flame; which broke its boundaries,
And, — torn and red and furious, — scattered round
Levin, and lava-slime, and barren ash,
Blighting what lay below. Then came the hush;
And that which was all terrible, grew fair.
The Hill of Hell is Crest of Paradise!
The cup which on its head steamed scarlet reek
And spilled forth fires, wears in the cloudless Blue
A silvery rim of snows; the fevered breast
Slumbers in comforted, unbroken, calm,
With placid bands of gilded clouds girt round,
And hues of sunrise and of sunset soft
On the scorched rocks. Where molten channels ran
Streams of sweet mountain crystal babble down
Embellishing black glen, and fissured cliff,
Deep hollows where sad Winter hides away
From Summer, with the snow still in her lap;
And shoulders of sharp crags and windy shelves,
With laughing light of flowers, and sparkling threads
Of the white falling water, and green glades
Where wild birds have their home, and plumy ferns
Wave for them, and the iris decks their nests
With flutter of her purple velvet flags.
And, in the happy plain, that Mountain's foot
Stands feared no more, but worshipped, watched, and
praised
For comeliness exceeding, and large gifts
Of cooling airs, and shadows cast around,
And wandering cloud-banks with their welcome rains
Gathered and garnered; fringed with villages
And wandering flocks, and vines, and clustering groves
"Whose roots, in death and desolation fixed,
Make loveliness of loss, and grace of wreck.
So did that Lady show a peace and charm,
A gracious presence, brought from passions stilled,
From tempests of the blood, for ever hushed:
Fairer, maybe, as she stood there, serene,
Than in those bygone days, the evil days
When Galilee, down to its utmost edge,
And all the South, was loud with talk of her
Who walked in woven gold, and wore her braids —
A Queen of Sin — crowning the shameless brow
With diadem of tresses, tied with pearls;
And set her henna-scented feet on necks
Of Greek and Latin lovers.
Now, most meek
The proud, pale, bended face; the folded palms,
The knees touching the pavement, as she said:
"The Roman Lord, who may command, hath prayed
Speech with his servant. She must needs obey,
Hostess and subject. I am Miriam!"
"Wottest thou who I am?" asked Pontius.
The flame of those old fires a little leaped;
The fair hill shook again with bygone storms
One moment, while she murmured: "Time hath been
When, with a curse, or by my girdle-knife,
The answer of thy handmaid had been given.
Now I have grace to say I hate thee not,
But pray His peace for thee. Did He not pray
'Father, forgive them!' Yea, I know thee well!
'Twas thou didst send my Master to the Cross!"

"Hast thou forgiven, who didst love Him so
That which my well-worn soul, careless of blood,
Pardons not to itself?" quoth Pontius.

And Mary said: "I could not love Him so,
Nor rightly worship Him, nor live to-day —
As always I must live, on the dear food
Of His true lips, nor trust to go to Him
The way He went, if I forgot His word —
'Love ye your enemies.' Remembering that
I bear to look upon thee, Roman Lord!
Remembering what we heard Him say at last:
'Forgive them, for they know not what they do.'"

"Nay, but I knew!" quoth Pontius: "whereunto
Prayed thus thy Rabbi? what new God had He?
What God hast thou, greater than Jove — to nod,
And so undo past deeds which have been done,
And — as thou sayest — 'forgive '?"

"That which befalls,"
She gave reply, "befalls not otherwise
Than as it hath been willed. He made us know
There cometh to the ground no little fowl,
No sparrow of the house-top, but its end
Was cared for; and the flowers, and lowly grass,
Which are to-morrow for the wayside fire,
Have raiment fore-provided them to wear
Brighter than Solomon's. If not one life
Goes anywhere to death, save for good use,
And by the over-arching Power allowed,
Under vast Law of Love, He — most of all —
Died for Love's sake, and was ordained to die,
Whom thou didst doom. Yet thou thyself wast
doomed
To do Love that sad service, slaying Him
Who could not die, but freeth all from death:
For we have Seen Him, strong, and beautiful,
And living on the farther shore of Death.
Therefore we hate thee not, but pity thee;
And those like thee whose evil prospers good;
And pray for thee, since Love alone helps Hate
To 'scape the whips "that scourge it into Right,
And bring it by long penance into peace
Unwittingly; — under a greater Name
Than what thou namest, and thy Romans serve."
"Yea!" Pontius mused: "He spake to me of
power
Lent from above, and not from Jove, or Rome!
What hindered that I should not use it, then,
To have thy peace this night in place of irk?
To taste full greatness of thy feebleness,
Not groan with littleness of majesty?"

She answered: "That which hindered was thyself
More feared of Caesar, than of wrongfulness;
And that which hindered was thy lust to win
Favour of men instead of praise from Heaven,
Whose still Voice whispered thy vexed will in vain.
He spake to us: 'Lay up no treasures here,
Where moth and rust corrupt, and thieves do steal;
But lay it up in Heaven! ''

Pilate brake in:

"Meherde! I would give much sesterces
To buy that ill time back, albeit, before,
Death never spoiled my slumbers I What saidst thou,
That, slaying Him, we could not kill? Thy brow
Weareth no brand of madness, yet thy speech
Sounds rank unreason!"

"Have I leave," she asked,
"For my great Master's sake, to speak more near?"

"I pray thee very humbly," Pontius said,
"To speak as thou shalt deign."

Thereat she rose
Stateliest, — and light of living Love and Truth
Made fairer her fair face, kindled her eyes
To lovelier lustre, while she told the things
Which had befallen after Calvary.

How, surely, with the sad days ending there
New days were dawned, and hopes unknown to Earth.
How He walked here, the shadow of Him Love,
The speech of Him soft Music, and His step
A Benediction; making sick folk whole,
The lame to walk, the lepers to go clean,
And taking back the dead from Death, by might
Of some deep secret which He had of Heaven.
Until, — at that hard triumph of the Cross,
In hour, and way, and by th' appointed hands —
He Himself passed, mild and majestical,
Through Death's black gate, whose inner side none saw
Before He set it wide, golden and glad,
Conqueror for us of the Unconquerable.
Also, along these coasts, what works He wrought —
Many most mighty works — and how He taught
The nearness of eternal things, the law
Of perfect Sonship; being Son of God
By eminence of manhood; King of Kings
By royalty o'erpassing realms and crowns.
Also, she told beautiful words He spake, —
Words of bright mercy and of boundless peace —
With wisdom wondrous, clad in simplest speech
As scent, and silver leaves, are shut, and seed,
For golden gardens under suns to come,
In the upfolded flow'r-cup. "Which blest buds,"
Spake she: "shall blossom ever more and more
For all flesh living, till the full fruit rounds,
And there be 'Peace on Earth — Peace and Goodwill!''
But many drew into the marbled Court
Silently, one by one, hearing those words
Fearless and sure, spoke high to Pontius.
For, 'twas as though the Angels' song anew
Found echo in our air. And, 'mid them came —
Leaving his kneeling camel at the gate —
A swarthy stranger in the Eastern garb,
Girdled and turbaned, as those use who wend
In the far-toiling Caravans of Hind.
Reverent and wrapt he stood; and, when she ceased,
Drew swiftly from his breast a silken roll
Tied with a silvered thong, and, bending low,
Laid this at Mary's foot.
But Pilate leaped
Fierce, from his place; with visage white and writhed.
"Call them to horse!" he cried, "for I will ride
To Sepphoris, before the Sun is high,
If spurs can prick! One other watch spent here
Will brand me Nazarene! "Therewith he flung
Furiously forth, buckling his Roman sword,
And strode down to the margin of the Lake,
While in the street, with sleepy stumbling tread,
Spearmen and slaves slow gathered for the march.

But over Galilee, the first rays spread —
Tender and pearly — of that Dawn, who takes
No taint of Earth, whereon her white feet walk.
The hills of Gadara were ridged with rose,
And every wimpling wavelet of the Sea
Rolled a light edge of silver on the gloom.
A blue belt widened; and the beam, which broke
Between the Morning-star and Night's last clouds,
Even while it showed the wind-flower's stainless cup,
And the red lily, waiting for her Lord,
Gleamed on the greaves of Pilate, gemmed his helm
With dancing flecks, and lit his studded shield
With soft forgiving splendours. And that breeze
Which is the breath of Day, waking the world,
Stirred with no gentler waft the innocent plumes
Of water-linnets, rousing in the reeds, —
Than the proud purple of his martial cloak
Clasped with the brazen eagles. And, he mused,
One sandal in the ripples of the Lake,
Which did not shun his foot: — "Aye, by the gods!
She spake of this! 'He makes His Sun to shine
On evil and on good! 'Who makes? We held
'Twas young Apollo, driving steeds of gold,
That made. Not Caesar, certes! for whose wrath
I sold myself to Rabbi Caiaphas.
Yet blows this breeze as tender on my cheek
As if 'twere hers of Magdal, who hath sinned
And lives the sweetlier! Yon all-seeing Sun,
Hastening above the verge, dips not again
To mark me standing in the waves He loved!
Those waves, with wet lips, kiss my wrongful foot;
The blind blooms waft me fragrance! Wherefore fear?
Why tremble? Yet, a Son of Heaven! A King!
Would I had heard His answer! Would I knew
What portion mine must prove, if these things grow
And Rome should pass, and huge Olympus' self
Be emptied of its gods!"

Thereat he turned
To stride his snorting war-horse; and the Day
Broadened in glory over Galilee,
Forgetting no man's roof; giv'n out of Heaven
Alike to all, to warm and comfort all.
And, in the whispering palms, and waving grass,
Once more that lovely promise seemed to sound:

Hearts of all upon Earth,
From the First to the Second Birth,
To rest as the wild waters rest,
With the colours of Heaven on their breast.