NONE spake when Wilson stood before | |
| The throne— | |
| And He that sat thereon | |
| Spake not; and all the presence-floor | |
| Burnt deep with blushes, as the angels cast | 5 |
| Their faces downwards. Then at last, | |
| Awe-stricken, he was ’ware | |
| How on the emerald stair | |
| A woman sat, divinely clothed in white, | |
| And at her knees four cherubs bright, | 10 |
| That laid | |
| Their heads within her lap. Then, trembling, he essay’d | |
| To speak:—‘Christ’s mother, pity me!’ | |
| Then answered she:— | |
| ‘Sir, I am Catherine Kinrade.’ | 15 |
| Even so—the poor dull brain, | |
| Drench’d in unhallow’d fire, | |
| It had no vigour to restrain— | |
| God’s image trodden in the mire | |
| Of impious wrongs—whom last he saw | 20 |
| Gazing with animal awe | |
| Before his harsh tribunal, proved unchaste, | |
| Incorrigible, woman’s form defaced | |
| To uttermost ruin by no fault of hers— | |
| So gave her to the torturers; | 25 |
| And now—some vital spring adjusted, | |
| Some faculty that rusted | |
| Cleansed to legitimate use— | |
| Some undeveloped action stirr’d, some juice | |
| Of God’s distilling dropt into the core | 30 |
| Of all her life—no more | |
| In that dark grave entomb’d, | |
| Her soul had bloom’d | |
| To perfect woman—swift celestial growth | |
| That mocks our temporal sloth— | 35 |
| To perfect woman—woman made to honour, | |
| With all the glory of her youth upon her. | |
| And from her lips and from her eyes there flow’d | |
| A smile that lit all heaven; the angels smiled; | |
| God smiled, if that were smile beneath the state that glow’d | 40 |
| Soft purple—and a voice:—‘Be reconciled!’ | |
| So to his side the children crept, | |
| And Catherine kiss’d him, and he wept. | |
| Then said a seraph:—‘Lo! he is forgiven.’ | |
| And for a space again there was no voice in Heaven. | 45 |
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