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| THE ROMAN sentinel stood helm’d 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 | |
| Quiver’d upon the fine and sleeping dust; | 5 |
| And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, | |
| And bask’d his scaly circles in the sun. | |
| Upon his spear the soldier lean’d 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.
’Twas now high noon, | |
| The dull low murmur of a funeral | |
| Went through the city, the sad sound of feet | 15 |
| Unmix’d 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 | |
| Walk’d with forgetful sadness, ’twas of one | |
| Mourned with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate | |
| Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent | |
| His spear downward as the bearers pass’d | 25 |
| Bending beneath their burden. There was one— | |
| Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, | |
| Crumpling the pall up in her wither’d hands, | |
| Follow’d an aged woman. Her short steps | |
| Falter’d with weakness, and a broken moan | 30 |
| Fell from her lips, thicken’d convulsively | |
| As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd | |
| Follow’d apart, but no one spoke to her. | |
| She had no kinsman. 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 turn’d 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 | |
| Touch’d not Bethulia, and a league away | |
| Upon the east lay pleasant Galilee. | |
| |
| Forth from the city gate the pitying crowd | 60 |
| Follow’d the stricken mourner. They came near | |
| The place of burial, and, with straining hands, | |
| Closer upon her breast she clasp’d the pall, | |
| And with a gasping sob, quick as a child’s, | |
| And an inquiring wildness flashing through | 65 |
| The thin grey lashes of her fever’d eyes, | |
| She came where Jesus stood beside the way. | |
| He look’d upon her, and His heart was moved. | |
| “Weep not!” He said; and as they stay’d 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 pray’d. 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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