Song of the wave / George Cabot Lodge [electronic text]

TO A BUST OF THE MATER DOLOROSA

"... et sur nos croix d'ébèneTon cadavre céleste en poussière est tombé!"

—DE MUSSET.

OH, Dolorous Mother with the silver tears, That in the withered day of Jesus' pain Received the flame of heaven-inspired prayers Upon thy pale, ascetic lips in vain!

Thou, Israel's daughter, with white arms apart On Death's dishevelled midnight, felt despair Weep tears of blood upon thy broken heart And tears of silver through thy solemn hair.

In vain thine agony grew almost sweet With pity at His death, and vainly there The Magdalen lavished on His wounded feet Her lips' caress, her opulence of hair.

In vain thy Son raised Lazarus from the dust,In vain He brake the bread and shared the wine, In vain they wore His sign, the meek and just, In vain He was a symbol and a shrine!

In vain! Thine image crumbles and is gone, Thine hallowed altar is an empty sign, And these mine unbelieving lips are stone That kiss thy dust amid those ters of thine!