Читать книгу Mother's Dream and Other Poems - Gould Hannah Flagg - Страница 20

A solemn night is o’er Jerusalem;

Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;

For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,

Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!

The blood, which started with the agony

That in the garden forced his swelling veins,

In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;

A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.

He walked with men, serene in holiness,

The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;

The front of pride he met with lowliness,

And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.

Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,

His bitter cup was filling to the brim.

Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,

With damps and shadows gathered over him.

The dismal night moves on but heavily,

While they, who came the sepulchre to keep

With bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,

Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.

Yet they must wake or die; the sentinel

Must keep his constant vigils round the spot

Where he shall find the watch of Israel:

The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.

Within the grave, that power victorious

O’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,

Hath wrought the body bright and glorious

For resurrection by the morning light.

And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;

The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,

Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,

The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.

But, where ’s the form that in the drapery,

Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,

Within the vault so still and shadowy,

That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?

That form is gone; its cast-off covering,

The sad habiliments of death, are here,

With burial odors round them hovering,

And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.

But, see the garden, fair and flowering,

Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;

And boughs with blossoms bend, embowering

The dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.

The guilty city still is slumbering,

While he is risen from the broken tomb;

As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,

He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.

The moon, now fading in the occident,

Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.

The sun, just rising in the orient,

Hath less of glory than in him we see.

Nature, that, for his death and burial,

Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,

Arrayed in light as for a festival,

Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”