MAGDALEN.

Unheeded to her hips her dark robe fell;— Her sweet head bends in agony of soul, Her long hair, hanging, wet with tears a-roll, Dissolving pearls of pain her grief to tell, Her flushed face drooping in her hands doth dwell, Her beauteous flanks sob-shaken past control, Her tear-wet bosoms heaving with the whole, And over all the spikenard’s orient smell. Speak quickly, Christ!—her tears erase her sin; Sweet Type of Peace, thou canst not her condemn! And lo! no man among us dares to stone! “Weep not! Go forth!—new paths thy feet begin; Thy foes are dumb, my test confoundeth them; By love you fell, by wiser loves atone.”