With him was Nicodemus, at his side
Meekly attendant; he who came by night
Of Jesus to enquire, and was supplied
With wisdom, taught from God, and by the might
Of spirit of diviner excellence
Eke only apprehensible aright.
Mysterious lore! that thou must recommence
Life and existence, and be born anew,
Born both of water and of spirit, whence
Spirit comes only, as flesh must flesh ensue:
And where it lists the wind shall blow, whose sound Thou hearest, but know'st not-none ever knewWhence cometh it nor whither it is bound:
And no man hath ascended into heaven
But he who thence came down, and bore the wound,
And perished that the World might be forgiven,
The Son of Man in heaven who dwells for aye!
These, in the awe of that most sacred Even,
Like brothers on one mournful embassy,
Came carrying each his tribute to the Dead,
Linen and spice, devout and lovingly.
Now from the rood, with melancholy dread,
The sacred temple of his body they
Remove, from which the God had vanished.
With filial care, solicitude, and yea,
With trembling veneration, from that height
They bore it down, all lifeless as it lay.
Then wept the Virgin at the woful rite,
Her heart was broken as with a fresh blow,
The floods o'erflowed, and overwhelmed her quite.
She looked up in his holy aspect, lo,
As men in shipwreck unto heaven uplook,
And spread abroad her hands, and watched him so;
The while the Magdalen, without rebuke,
Knelt and received the Saviour's wounded feet,
And veiled them with the vest;-the while John took
His master on his bosom, with complete
Affection, bore the burthen of his corse
As it descended in its winding-sheet.
Such her excess of sorrow, and its force,
In sorrow like her's if there may be excess,
And more than madness might beget remorse.
Oh, mother-maid! who may thy loss express
What mother ever had a son like thine?
Than common mothers, oh, canst thou mourn less?
Lo, they have now his human limbs supine,
Wrapt in the linen mingled with the balm,
And gazed their last upon the most divine.
How beautiful in death is he! how calm
That cold chaste countenance that seems to smile
E'en yet! that frame that flourished like the palm,
In stature and in stateliness, a pile
Of exquisite proportion, symmetry,
And grace, how lovely! Those bland lips, whence guile
Was alien, yet are parted lovelily,
As eloquence still lingered mutely there;
And still that forehead is of dignity!
The brave are beautiful in death, .. and here
Lies on his field of fame the Victor-Chief-
And here shall also be his sepulchre.
Bright-everlasting-be thy fame; though brief
Thy glorious life, thou Warrior of our Faith,
Hero of Peace, and Champion of Belief!
There was a garden on that hill of death,
Where, in a rock, was newly hewn a tomb,
Whose concave never man had slept beneath.
There, shrouded and embalmed in tender gloom,
Shall rest the long Desire of every land,
The Hope of nations, and the Lord of Doom.
Sadly and slowly, from their fatal stand,
(Their pupil arms the Rabbi's faithful bier,)
Thither they bore him, and with gentle hand,-
Composed his perfect limbs, and laid him there,
In most magnificent simplicity-
-All silent-save the toning of a tear,
The silver cadence of a veilèd sigh.
HALCYON and hallowed be the haunt, oh Son Of Man; hallowed and halcyon be the haunt Of thy repose serene, heroic One!
Above the grotto in the garden, chaunt,
Oh Peace! thy pleasant song-a plaintive lay,
Of tone so fine it silence may not daunt.
A perfect man, he walked in thy pure way,
In Wisdom's pensive paths he took delight,
And his Benevolence was like the day.
And who art thou who pinest in the blight
Of highest hope, and at the iniquity
Of Fortune, murmurest to the silent night?
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