A MEDITATION.
233
Our elder, stronger Brethren of the skies,
That unto me their names, their effigies
Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them[1] whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! Ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest.
That it might fare the sweeter ye did wake
Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,[2]
But bound on rugged paths where once of old
Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!
For oft, methinks, true Lovers! loved the less
For more abundant loving, bitterness
Was wrung within your cup while ye did strain
Thereout your balms of healing; yea, the Vine
Was bruised within your souls to make them wine
That trampled down its tendrils! yet this pain
Ye took in meekness, nor of outward foe
Made much account that knew a subtler foe,
A sorer strife, a plague-spot lying bare
To one loved eye, and fain ye would be fair
That unto me their names, their effigies
Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them[1] whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! Ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest.
That it might fare the sweeter ye did wake
Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,[2]
But bound on rugged paths where once of old
Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!
For oft, methinks, true Lovers! loved the less
For more abundant loving, bitterness
Was wrung within your cup while ye did strain
Thereout your balms of healing; yea, the Vine
Was bruised within your souls to make them wine
That trampled down its tendrils! yet this pain
Ye took in meekness, nor of outward foe
Made much account that knew a subtler foe,
A sorer strife, a plague-spot lying bare
To one loved eye, and fain ye would be fair
