“You are right, my dear madam,” said Edda, with a sweet look of meek thoughtfulness, “and I, of all other women, should not speak so hopelessly, for, after all my dark hours, light came at last; and so beautiful is life to me now, that I sometimes fancy to me is given a glimpse of Heaven’s dawning.”
I stood within the glowing, graceful ring Of pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:— The admiring murmur of the crowd did bring My step to pause before a shape, in all The thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed, The sense of Beauty _felt_—but not defined. Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness— In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes; On the rapt brow of holy earnestness The light of prophecy reflected lies. The mystic vision of the Apocalypse Thy pen of fire sublimely did record: But most we love His lessons from thy lips— John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!
Like thee to dream, by angel-wings unshaded! The starry crown hangs o’er thy meek young head, Flinging a glory round thee, like the braided And brilliant tints by a rich sunset shed. O loveliest vision of the painter’s thought— Born in his happiest hour of inspiration, How more than fair the exquisite creation His genius-gifted pencil here hath wrought! How wondrously is charmed the “Pilgrim” story That made my childhood’s ever new delight: Sweet Mercy! _now_, in tenderest grace and glory, Thy pale, bright picture floats before my sight. Thrice blesséd! and thrice beautiful! might _we_ But in _our_ dreams some guardian-angel see!
The first faint crimson of the early morning Dawned on the tomb where the loved Master lay; And on the Marys, who for His adorning Came bearing spices sweet, at break of day. In meek, mute reverence, near the sepulchre The mourners drew, as round a sacred shrine— And gazing down for the dear form divine— The unsealed stone—the white-robed messenger— Met their affrighted view! In awe they fled, And she, the Magdalen! the tidings spread, “Christ is arisen!” O, woman! in that hour Well might a solemn rapture fill thy mind— Thou, earth’s poor outcast, honored with high power To bear such joyful tidings to mankind.
Meek list’ner! on whose purely virgin brow Is set the beauty of submissive thought: Oh! blest beyond Earth’s favored ones art thou, Whose earnest eyes so reverently caught The Teacher’s look, with mild, grave wisdom fraught. How was the awakened soul within thee stirred To suppliant or adoring tones, as fell The quickening power of the Eternal Word, Like the winged seed, on thy young heart; to dwell A germ not lost! A heavenly light serene, Unclouded, sits on thy soft, spiritual mien— I call thee Blest, for thou hast chosen well, Daughter of Christ! O, happy to have given The bloom of thy unblighted years to Heaven!