Ii

The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, Till a winter’s noon-day placed her buried Son Before her eyes, last child of many gone-- His raiment of angelic white, and lo! His very feet bright as the dazzling snow Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven, Surpasses aught these elements can show. Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour Whate’er befel she could not grieve or pine; But the Transfigured, in and out of season, Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power Over material forms that mastered reason. Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine!