Fresh from
the springs of Paradise, shake from thy wings the dew against my
forehead. We two were coming up together through the sweet land of
poesy and dreams, where the senses believe what the heart hopes; our
hands were full of green boughs, and our laps of cowslips and
violets, white and purple. We were talking of that more beautiful
world into which childhood was opening out, when that spectre met
us, feared and dreaded alike by the strong man and the little child,
and one was taken, and the other left.
One was caught away sinless to the bosom of the Good Shepherd, and
one was left to weep pitiless tears, to eat the bread of toil, and
to think the bitter thoughts of misery,--left "to clasp a phantom
and to find it air." For often has the adversary pressed me sore,
and out of my arms has slid ever that which my soul pronounced good:
slid out of my arms and coiled about my feet like a serpent,
dragging me back and holding me down from all that is high and
great.
Pity me, dear one, if thy sweet sympathies can come out of the
glory, if the lovelight of thy beautiful life can press through the
cloud and the evil, and fold me again as a garment; pity and plead
for me with the maiden mother whose arms in human sorrow and human
love cradled our blessed Redeemer.
She hath known our mortal pain and passion--our more than mortal
triumph--she hath heard the "blessed art thou among women.
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