FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance, Her thin, pale fingers clasped within the hand Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And, as it stirred with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turned upon her pillow. He was there,- The same loved, tireless watcher, and she looked Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears, and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness, murmuring his name, She gently drew his hands upon her lips, And kissed it as she wept. The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery
Of the rich curtains buried up his face; And when the twilight fell, the silken folds
Stirred with his prayer; but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure, and he could not hear, In the dead, utter silence, that a breath Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave To his nice touch no pulse, and at her mouth He held the lightest curl that on her neck Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze Ached with its deathly stillness.
And softly o'er the Sea of Galilee
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore,
Tipped with the silver sparkles of the moon. The breaking waves played low upon the beach Their constant music, but the air beside Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice, In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, Seemed like some just-born harmony in the air, Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, With the broad moonlight falling on His brow, He stood and taught the people. At His feet Lay His small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop shell, And staff; for they had waited by the sea Till He came o'er from Gadarene, and prayed For His wont teachings as He came to land. His hair was parted meekly on His brow, And the long curls from off His shoulders fell As He leaned forward earnestly, and still The same calm cadence, passionless and deep, And in His looks the same mild majesty, And in His mien the sadness mixed with power, Filled them with love and wonder.
As on His words entrancedly they hung, The crowd divided, and among them stood Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew The twelve disciples to their Master's side, And silently the people shrunk away, And left the haughty Ruler in the midst. Alone. A moment longer on the face
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze,
And as the twelve looked on him, by the light Of the clear moon, they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard, and, drawing nigh Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem
Of His coarse mantle, and with trembling hands Pressed it upon his lips, and murmured low, Master, my daughter!"
The same silvery light
That shone upon the lone rock by the sea Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals
As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and His disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam. Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair; but, ere he touched The latchet, from within a whisper came: "Trouble the Master not,—for she is dead!" And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his steps faltered, and his broken voice. Choked in its utterance. But a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, "She is not dead, but sleepeth."
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns
Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curled indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumbered in their folds,- Not even a tassel stirring in the air,- And as the Saviour stood beside the bed. And prayed inaudibly, the Ruler heard The quickening division of His breath As He grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er His calm, sad face; And, drawing nearer to the bed, He moved The silken curtains silently apart
And looked upon the maiden.
Of matchless sculpture, in her sleep she lay,- The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white, transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life, And round beneath the faintly-tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches pencilled on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and, falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small, round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung, Like airy shadows floating as they slept.
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised
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