| |
| THE ROMAN sentinel stood helmed and tall | |
| Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread | |
| Of comers to the city mart was done, | |
| For it was almost noon, and a dead heat | |
| Quivered upon the fine and sleeping dust, | 5 |
| And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, | |
| And basked his scaly circles in the sun. | |
| Upon his spear the soldier leaned, and kept | |
| His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream | |
| Was broken by the solitary foot | 10 |
| Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head | |
| To curse him for a tributary Jew, | |
And slumberously dozed on.
’T was now high noon. | |
| The dull, low murmur of a funeral | |
| Went through the city,—the sad sound of feet | 15 |
| Unmixed with voices,—and the sentinel | |
| Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly | |
| Up the wide streets along whose paved way | |
| The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, | |
| Bearing a body heavily on its bier, | 20 |
| And, by the crowd that in the burning sun | |
| Walked with forgetful sadness, ’t was of one | |
| Mourned with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate | |
| Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent | |
| His spear-point downwards as the bearers passed, | 25 |
Bending beneath their burden.
There was one,— | |
| Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, | |
| Crumpling the pall up in her withered hands, | |
| Followed an aged woman. Her short steps | |
| Faltered with weakness, and a broken moan | 30 |
| Fell from her lips, thickened convulsively | |
| As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd | |
| Followed apart, but no one spoke to her. | |
| She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone, | |
| A widow with one son. He was her all,— | 35 |
| The only tie she had in the wide world,— | |
| And he was dead. They could not comfort her. | |
| |
| Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate | |
| The funeral came forth. His lips were pale | |
| With the noon’s sultry heat. The beaded sweat | 40 |
| Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn | |
| And simple latchets of his sandals lay, | |
| Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come | |
| Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not | |
| To wet his lips by green Bethsaida’s pool, | 45 |
| Nor wash his feet in Kishon’s silver springs, | |
| Nor turn him southward upon Tabor’s side | |
| To catch Gilboa’s light and spicy breeze. | |
| Genesareth stood cool upon the east, | |
| Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there | 50 |
| The weary traveller might bide till eve; | |
| And on the alders of Bethulia’s plains | |
| The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild; | |
| Yet turned he not aside, but gazing on, | |
| From every swelling mount he saw afar, | 55 |
| Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, | |
| The place of his next errand; and the path | |
| Touched not Bethulia, and a league away | |
| Upon the cast lay pleasant Galilee. | |
| |
| Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd | 60 |
| Followed the stricken mourner. They came near | |
| The place of burial, and with straining hands | |
| Closer upon her breast she clasped the pall, | |
| And with a gasping sob, quick as a child’s, | |
| And an inquiring wildness flashing through | 65 |
| The thin gray lashes of her fevered eyes, | |
| She came where Jesus stood beside the way. | |
| He looked upon her, and his heart was moved. | |
| “Weep not!” he said; and as they stayed the bier, | |
| And at his bidding laid it at his feet, | 70 |
| He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, | |
| And laid it back in silence from the dead. | |
| With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, | |
| And gazed on his calm looks. A minute’s space | |
| He stood and prayed. Then, taking the cold hand, | 75 |
| He said, “Arise!” And instantly the breast | |
| Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush | |
| Ran through the lines of the divided lips, | |
| And with a murmur of his mother’s name, | |
| He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. | 80 |
| And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, | |
| Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. | |
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