XXI.
Met in a point [Footnote 7] the circles twain
Of temporal and eternal things
Embrace, close linked. Redemption's chain
Drops thence to earth its myriad rings.
[Footnote 7: The Incarnation.]
In either circle, from of old,
That point of meeting stood decreed;—
Twin mysteries cast in one deep mould,
"The Woman," and "the Woman's Seed."
Mary, long ages ere thy birth
Resplendent with Salvation's Sign,
In thee a stainless hand the earth
Put forth, to meet the Hand Divine!
First trophy of all-conquering Grace,
First victory of that Blood all pure,
Of man's once fair but fallen race
Thou stood'st, the monument secure.
The Word made Flesh! the Way! the Door!
The link that dust with Godhead blends!
Through Him the worlds their God adore:—
Through thee that God to man descends.
"Sine Labe originali Concepta."
XXII.
A soul-like sound, subdued yet strong,
A whispered music, mystery-rife,
A sound like Eden airs among
The branches of the Tree of Life—
At first no more than this; at last
The voice of every land and clime,
It swept o'er Earth, a clarion blast:
Earth heard, and shook with joy sublime.
Mary! thy triumph was her own.
In thee she saw her prime restored:
She saw ascend a spotless Throne
For Him, her Saviour, and her Lord.
The Church had spoken. She that dwells
Sun-clad with beatific light,
From Truth's unvanquished citadels,
From Sion's Apostolic height,
Had stretched her sceptred hands, and pressed
The seal of Faith, defined and known,
Upon that Truth till then confessed
By Love's instinctive sense alone.
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XXIII.
Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold,
Spring, sacred now from blasts and blights,
Lifts in a firm, untrembling hold
Her chalice of fulfilled delights.
Confirmed around her queenly lip
The smile late wavering, on she moves;
And seems through deepening tides to step
Of steadier joys and larger loves.
The stony Ash itself relents,
Into the blue embrace of May
Sinking, like old impenitents
Heart-touched at last; and, far away,
The long wave yearns along the coast
With sob suppressed, like that which thrills
(While o'er the altar mounts the Host)
Some chapel on the Irish hills.
Corpus Christi.
XXIV.
Rejoice, O Mary! and be glad,
Thou Church triumphant here below!
He cometh, in meekest emblems clad;
Himself he cometh to bestow!
That body which thou gav'st, O Earth,
He giveth back—that Flesh, that Blood;
Born of the Altar's mystic birth;
At once thy Worship and thy Food.
He who of old on Calvary bled
On all thine altars lies to-day,
A bloodless Sacrifice, but dread;
The Lamb in heaven adored for aye.
His Godhead on the Cross He veiled;
His Manhood here He veileth too:
But Faith has eagle eyes unsealed;
And Love to Him she loves is true.
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"I will not leave you orphans. Lo!
While lasts the world with you am I."
Saviour! we see Thee not; but know,
With burning hearts, that Thou art nigh!
He comes! Blue Heaven, thine incense breathe
O'er all the consecrated sod;
And thou, O Earth, with flowers enwreathe
The steps of thine advancing God!
Corpus Christi.
XXV.
What music swells on every gale?
What heavenly Herald rideth past?
Vale sings to vale, "He comes; all hail!"
Sea sighs to sea, "He comes at last."
The Earth bursts forth in choral song;
Aloft her "Lauda Sion" soars;
Her myrtle boughs at once are flung
Before a thousand Minster doors.
Far on the white processions wind
Through wood and plain and street and court
The kings and prelates pace behind
The King of kings in seemly sort.
The incense floats on Grecian air;
Old Carmel echoes back the chant;
In every breeze the torches flare
That curls the waves of the Levant.
On Ramah's plain—in Bethlehem's bound—
Is heard to-day a gladsome voice:
"Rejoice," it cries, "the lost is found!
With Mary's joy, O Earth, rejoice!"
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XXVI.
Pleasant the swarm about the bough;
The meadow-whisper round the woods;
And for their coolness pleasant now
The murmur of the falling floods.
Pleasant beneath the thorn to lie,
And let a summer fancy loose;
To hear the cuckoo's double cry;
To make the noon-tide sloth's excuse.
Panting, but pleased, the cattle stand
Knee-deep in water-weed and sedge,
And scarcely crop the greener band
Of osiers round the river's edge.
But hark! Far off the south wind sweeps
The golden-foliaged groves among,
Renewed or lulled, with rests and leaps—
Ah! how it makes the spirit long
To drop its earthly weight, and drift
Like yon white cloud, on pinions free,
Beyond that mountain's purple rift,
And o'er that scintillating sea!
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XXVII.
Sing on, wide winds, your anthems vast!
The ear is richer than the eye:
Upon the eye no shape can cast
Such impress of Infinity.
And thou, my soul, thy wings of might
Put forth:—thou too, one day shalt soar,
And, onward borne in heavenward flight,
The starry universe explore;
Breasting that breeze which waves the bowers
Of Heaven's bright forest never mute,
Whereof perchance this earth of ours
Is but the feeblest forest-fruit.
"The Spirit bloweth where He wills"—
Effluence of that Life Divine
Which wakes the Universe, and stills,
In Thy strong refluence make us Thine!