Oh! surely some bright Presence from above On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!E'en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade, Th' unconquerable Angel, mightiest Love! 66 VI. THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN. And she answered, I dwell among mine own people."—2 Kings, iv. 13. "I dwell among mine own,"-Oh! happy thou! Not for the sunny clusters of the vine, Nor for the olives on the mountain's brow; Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line Laugh to the light of waters-not for these, Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine- Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities. VII. THE ANNUNCIATION. Lowliest of women, and most glorified! In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, A brightness round thee grew-and by thy side Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, Solemn, yet breathing gladness.- From her throne A queen had risen with more imperial eye, A stately prophetess of victory From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone, For such high tidings as to thee were brought, Chosen of Heaven! that hour;- but thou, O thou! E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught, Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word, And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. VIII. THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN. Yet, as a sun-burst flushing mountain snow, Which living harps the quires of Heaven among Might well have link'd with their divinest chords. Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast, Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd, No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh; While thine, O childlike virgin! through all time Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime, Being of God, and therefore not to die. IX. THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET. There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train, Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn, When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn; When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth Than all those costly balms of Araby; Then was there joy, a song of joy in Heaven, For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven! X. MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST. Oh! blest beyond all daughters of the earth! 'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying! Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring lying So deep and still in its transparent rest, That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills. XI. THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead! Was in your bosoms-thou, whose steps, made fleet By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet; And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat Didst wait his summons- then with reverent love Fall weeping at the blest Deliverer's feet, Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move, And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just, Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust? Oh! question not, and let no law be given To those unveilings of its deepest shrine, By the wrong spirit made in outward sign: Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven. XII. THE MEMORIAL OF MARY. "Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her."-Matthew, xxvi. 13.-See also John, xii. 3. Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall; The Christian traveller rests-where'er the child Is borne thy memory, and all praise above; XIII. THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS. Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast, Such by the Cross doth your bright lingering seem, Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last! Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast O blessed faith; a guiding lamp, that hour, Bidding her bind each tendril of her life, To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth. XIV. MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE. Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given When that high voice which burial rocks had riven, |