ON OUR LADY’S DEATH

“And didst thou die, dear Mother of our Life?

Sin had no part in thee: then how should death?

Methinks, if aught the great tradition saith

Could wake in loving hearts a moment’s strife”

(I said—my own with Her new image rife),

“’Twere this.” And yet ’tis certain, next to faith,

Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath:

Though after the Seventh Sword no meaner knife

Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did. No sting

Of pain was there, but only joy. The love,

So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained

From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing:

Thy body, soon to reign with it above,

Radiant and fragrant, as in trance, remained.

Yes, Mother of God, though thou didst stoop to die,

Death could not mar thy beauty. On thy face

Nor time nor grief had wrinkle left or trace:

It had but aged in God-like majesty:

Mature, yet, save the mother in thine eye,

As maiden-fresh as when, of all our race,

Thou, first and last, wast greeted “full of grace”—

Ere thrice five years had worshipped and gone by.

Mortal thy body; yet it could not know

Mortality’s decay. Like sinless Eve’s,

It waited but the change on Thabor shown.

And when, at thy sweet will, ’twas first laid low,

Untainted as a lily’s folded leaves

It slept—the angels watching by the stone.

“At thy sweet will.” Then wherefore didst thou will

To pass death’s portal? To the outward ear

There comes no answer; but the heart can hear.

Thy Son had passed it. Thou upon the hill

Of scorn hadst stood beside his cross; and still

Wouldst “follow the Lamb where’er he went.” Of fear

Thou knewest naught. The cup’s last drop, so dear

To Him, thy love must share—or miss its fill.

But more. Thy other children—even we—

Must enter life through death. And couldst thou brook

To watch our terrors at the dark unknown,

Powerless to stay us with a sympathy

Better than any tender word or look—

Bidding our steps tread firmly in thine own?