When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers all that was a friend,
And, from his hand, his voice, his smile,
Divides me for a little while,-
My Saviour marks the tears I shed,
For Jesus wept o'er Lazarus, dead.
And O, when I have safely pass'd
Through every conflict but the last,
Still, Lord, unchanging, watch beside
My dying bed, for Thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latent tears away.
THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
OOM for the leper! Room!" And, as he
The cry pass'd on-" Room for the leper! Room!"
Sunrise was slanting on the city gates
Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills
The early-risen poor were coming in,
Duly and cheerfully, to their toil; and up
Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum
Of moving wheels and multitudes astir,
And all that in a city murmur swells
Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear,
Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick,
Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase
The death-like images of the dark away.
"Room for the leper!" And aside they stood,
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood—all
Who met him on his way-and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper, with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!"
Of the Judæan summer, and the leaves,
Whose shadow lay so still upon the path,
Had budded on the clear and flashing eye
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young,
And eminently beautiful, and life
Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip,
And sparkled in his glance; and in his mien
There was a gracious pride that every eye
Follow'd with benisons-and this was he!
With the soft air of summer he had come,
A torpor on his frame, which not the speed
Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast
Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs
The spirit to its bent, might drive away.
The blood beat not as wont within his veins;
Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth
Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his port,
With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld.
Even his voice was changed-a languid moan
Taking the place of the clear, silver key;
And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light,
And very air, were steep'd in sluggishness.
He strove with it awhile, as manhood will,
Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein
Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise
The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook.
Day after day he lay as if in sleep;
His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales,
Circled with livid purple, cover'd him.
And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen'd beneath the hard, unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, -And Helon was a leper!
Day was breaking When, at the altar of the temple, stood The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off
His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
And, with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still
Waiting to hear his doom :—
Depart! depart, O child
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God;
For He has smote thee with a chastening rod,
And to the desert wild,
From all thou lovest, away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague His people may be free.
Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er,
And stay thou not to hear
Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who, in the wilderness, pass by.
Wet not thy burning lip
In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains bide;
Nor kneel thee down to dip
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well, or river's grassy brink.
And pass not thou between
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze,
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees
Where human tracks are seen;
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain,
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.
And now, depart! And when
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him
Who, from the tribes of men,
Selected thee to feel his chastening rod-
Depart, O leper! and forget not God!
And he went forth-alone; not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,
Sick, and heart-broken, and alone, to die;
For God hath cursed the leper!
And Helon knelt beneath a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his parched lips,
Praying that he might be so bless'd-to die!
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