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VII.

For me–for me–
God knows that I am feeble like the rest!–
I often wandered forth, more child than maiden,
Among the midnight hills of Galilee,
Whose summits looked heaven-laden;
Listening to silence as it seemed to be
God’s voice, so soft yet strong–so fain to press
Upon my heart as heaven did on the height,
And waken up its shadows by a light,
And show its vileness by a holiness.
Then I knelt down most silent like the night,
Too self-renounced for fears,
Raising my small face to the boundless blue
Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears.
God heard them falling after–with His dew.

VIII.

So, seeing my corruption, can I see.
This Incorruptible now born of me
This fair new Innocence no sun did chance
To shine on, (for even Adam was no child,)
Created from my nature all defiled,
This mystery from out mine ignorance–
Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more
Than others do, or I did heretofore?–
Can hands wherein such burden pure has been,
Not open with the cry, “Unclean, unclean!”
More oft than any else beneath the skies?
Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son!
The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise,
Must all less lowly wait
Than I, upon thy state!–
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

IX.

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe,
Come, crown me Him a king!
Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling
Their light where fell a curse.
And make a crowning for this kingly brow!–
What is my word?–Each empyreal star
Sits in a sphere afar
In shining ambuscade:
The child-brow, crowned by none,
Keeps its unchildlike shade.
Sleep, sleep, my crownless One!

X.

Unchildlike shade!–no other babe doth wear
An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.–
No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen,
To float like speech the speechless lips between;
No dovelike cooing in the golden air,
No quick short joys of leaping babyhood.
Alas, our earthly good
In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee:
Yet, sleep, my weary One!

XI.

And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy,
With the dread sense of things which shall be done,
Doth smite me inly, like a sword–a sword?–
(That “smites the Shepherd!”) then I think aloud
The words “despised,”–“rejected,”–every word
Recoiling into darkness as I view
The darling on my knee.
Bright angels,–move not!–lest ye stir the cloud
Betwixt my soul and His futurity!
I must not die, with mother’s work to do,
And could not live–and see.

XII.

It is enough to bear
This image still and fair–
This holier in sleep,
Than a saint at prayer:
This aspect of a child
Who never sinned or smiled–
This presence in an infant’s face:
This sadness most like love,
This love than love more deep,
This weakness like omnipotence,
It is so strong to move!
Awful is this watching place,
Awful what I see from hence–
A king, without regalia,
A God, without the thunder,
A child, without the heart for play;
Ay, a Creator rent asunder
From His first glory and cast away
On His own world, for me alone
To hold in hands created, crying–Son!

XIII.

That tear fell not on Thee
Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in Thy slumber!
Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out of number
Which through the vibratory palm-trees run
From summer wind and bird,
So quickly hast Thou heard
A tear fall silently?–
Wak’st Thou, O loving One?

FOOTNOTE:

[M] It is a Jewish tradition that Moses died of the kisses of God’s
lips.