Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord.

  Here, where our Lord once laid his head,
  Now the grave lies buried.

  The Widow’s Mites.

  Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land,
  Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand;
  The other’s wanton wealth foams high and brave: 
  The other cast away—­she only gave.

  On the Prodigal.

  Tell me, bright boy! tell me, my golden lad! 
  Whither away so frolic?  Why so glad?

  What! all thy wealth in council? all thy state? 
  Are husks so dear?  Troth, ’tis a mighty rate!

I value the following as a lovely parable.  Mary is not contented:  to see the place is little comfort.  The church itself, with all its memories of the Lord, the gospel-story, and all theory about him, is but his tomb until we find himself.

  Come, see the place-where the Lord lay.

  Show me himself, himself, bright sir!  Oh show
  Which way my poor tears to himself may go. 
  Were it enough to show the place, and say,
  “Look, Mary; here see where thy Lord once lay;”
  Then could I show these arms of mine, and say,
  “Look, Mary; here see where thy Lord once lay.”

From one of eight lines, on the Mother Mary looking on her child in her lap, I take the last two, complete in themselves, and I think best alone.

  This new guest to her eyes new laws hath given: 
  ’Twas once look up, ’tis now look down to heaven.

And here is perhaps his best.

  Two went up into the Temple to pray.

  Two went to pray?  Oh rather say,
  One went to brag, the other to pray.

  One stands up close, and treads on high,
  Where the other dares not lend his eye.

  One nearer to God’s altar trod;
  The other to the altar’s God.

This appears to me perfect.  Here is the true relation between the forms and the end of religion.  The priesthood, the altar and all its ceremonies, must vanish from between the sinner and his God.  When the priest forgets his mediation of a servant, his duty of a door-keeper to the temple of truth, and takes upon him the office of an intercessor, he stands between man and God, and is a Satan, an adversary.  Artistically considered, the poem could hardly be improved.

Here is another containing a similar lesson.

  I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof.

  Thy God was making haste into thy roof;
  Thy humble faith and fear keeps him aloof. 
  He’ll be thy guest:  because he may not be,
  He’ll come—­into thy house?  No; into thee.

The following is a world-wide intercession for them that know not what they do.  Of those that reject the truth, who can be said ever to have truly seen it?  A man must be good to see truth.  It is a thought suggested by our Lord’s words, not an irreverent opposition to the truth of them.