V. The Crucifixion

  Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth,
  Early one season, and before her time,
  A weakly lamb.  It chanced to be upon
  Jesus’ birthday, when he was eight years old. 
  So Mary said—­“We’ll name it after him,”—­
  (Because she ever thought to please her child)—­
  “And we will sign it with a small red cross
  Upon the back, a mark to know it by.” 
  And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grew
  Spotless and pure and loving like himself,
  White as the mother’s milk it fed upon,
  He gave not up his care, till it became
  Of strength enough to browse and then, because
  Joseph had no land of his own, being poor,
  He sent away the lamb to feed amongst
  A neighbour’s flock some distance from his home;
  Where Jesus went to see it every day.

  One late Spring eve, their daily work being done,
  Mother and child, according to their wont,
  Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk. 
  A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blew
  Light flakes of waving silver o’er the fields
  Ready for mowing, and the golden West
  Warmed half the sky:  the low sun flickered through
  The hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn trees
  Scattered their snowy leaves and scent around. 
  The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf,
  And musical in murmur and in song.

  Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lamb
  Saw them approach, and ran from side to side
  The gate, pushing its eager face between
  The lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy. 
  And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled with
  The little creature, that could scarce find how
  To show its love enough; licking his hands,
  Then, starting from him, gambolled back again,
  And, with its white feet upon Jesus’ knees,
  Nestled its head by his:  and, as the sun
  Sank down behind them, broadening as it neared
  The low horizon, Mary thought it seemed
  To clothe them like a glory.—­But her look
  Grew thoughtful, and she said:  “I had, last night,
  A wandering dream.  This brings it to my mind;
  And I will tell it thee as we walk home.

  “I dreamed a weary way I had to go
  Alone, across an unknown land:  such wastes
  We sometimes see in visions of the night,
  Barren and dimly lighted.  There was not
  A tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk,
  Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there,
  A shrivelled thistle grew:  the grass was dead,
  And the starved soil glared through its scanty tufts
  In bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot,
  Chafing my tired feet, that caught upon
  Its parched surface; for a thirsty sun
  Had sucked all moisture from the ground it burned,
  And, red and glowing, stared upon me like
  A furnace eye when all the flame is spent. 
  I felt it was a dream; and so I tried