Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS, by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Poet's Biography First Line: Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve Last Line: Full on his beaming countenance -- arose! Subject(s): Jesus Christ - Life & Ministry | ||||||||
FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance -- Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there -- The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, She gently drew his hand upon her lips, And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery Of the rich curtains buried up his face; And when the twilight fell, the silken folds Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure -- and he could not hear, In the dead, utter silence, that a breath Came through her nostrils -- and her temples gave To his nice touch no pulse -- and, at her mouth, He held the lightest curl that on her neck Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze Ached with its deathly stillness. * * * * * * * * * * * It was night -- And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon. The breaking waves play'd low upon the beach Their constant music, but the air beside Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice, In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air, Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, He stood and taught the people. At his feet Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, And staff -- for they had waited by the sea Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd For his wont teachings as he came to land. His hair was parted meekly on his brow, And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still The same calm cadence, passionless and deep -- And in his looks the same mild majesty -- And in his mien the sadness mix'd with power -- Fill'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly, As on his words entrancedly they hung, The crowd divided, and among them stood JAIRUS THE RULER. With his flowing robe Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came, And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew The twelve disciples to their Master's side; And silently the people shrunk away, And left the haughty Ruler in the midst Alone. A moment longer on the face Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, And, as the twelve look'd on him, by the light Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard; and, drawing nigh Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands Press'd it upon his lips, and murmur'd low, "Master! my daughter!" -- * * * * * * * * * * * * The same silvery light, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair; but ere he touch'd The latchet, from within a whisper came, "Trouble the Master not -- for she is dead!" And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance; -- but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, "She is not dead -- but sleepeth." They pass'd in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumber'd in their folds -- Not even a tassel stirring in the air -- And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard The quickening division of his breath As he grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face; And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved The silken curtains silently apart, And look'd upon the maiden. Like a form Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay -- The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life; And round beneath the faintly tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung, Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, "Maiden! Arise!" -- and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied color ran; And the still outline of her graceful form Stirr'd in the linen vesture; and she clasp'd The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance -- AROSE! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RELIGION AND DOCTRINE by JOHN MILTON HAY A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER by SIDNEY LANIER THE MAN CHRIST by THERESE (KARPER) LINDSEY OUR MASTER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE LEPER (2) by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS CHRISTMAS EPITHALAMIUM by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. THE CARPENTER by AMY BRUNER ALMY THE EVERLASTING GOSPEL (VERSION 2) by WILLIAM BLAKE COMRADE CHRIST by VERNE BRIGHT ANDRE'S LAST REQUEST [OR, REQUEST TO WASHINGTON] [OCTOBER 1, 1780] by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS |
|