The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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V.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

Forth from the city, with the load

That makes the trampling low,

They walk along the dreary road

That dust and ashes go.

The

other way, toward the gate Their trampling strong and loud,

With hope of liberty elate,

Comes on another crowd.

Nearer and nearer draw the twain--

One with a wailing cry!

How

could the Life let such a train Of death and tears go by!

"Weep not," he said, and touched the bier:

They stand, the dead who bear;

The

mother knows nor hope nor fear-- He waits not for her prayer.

"Young man, I say to thee, arise."

Who hears, he must obey:

Up starts the body; wide the eyes

Flash wonder and dismay.

The

lips would speak, as if they caught Some converse sudden broke

When the great word the dead man sought,

And Hades' silence woke.

The

lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare Gives place to ordered sight;

The

murmur dies upon the air; The soul is dumb with light.

He brings no news; he has forgot,

Or saw with vision weak:

Thou sees! all our unseen lot,

And yet thou dost not speak.

Hold'st thou the news, as parent might

A too good gift, away,

Lest we should neither sleep at night,

Nor do our work by day?

The

mother leaves us not a spark Of her triumph over grief;

Her

tears alone have left their mark Upon the holy leaf:

Oft

gratitude will thanks benumb, Joy will our laughter quell:

May

not Eternity be dumb
With things too good to tell?

Her

straining arms her lost one hold; Question she asketh none;

She

trusts for all he leaves untold; Enough, to clasp her son!

The

ebb is checked, the flow begun, Sent rushing to the gate:

Death turns him backward to the sun,

And life is yet our fate!

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