She did not see—­she only felt—­
  As up the staring aisle she walked—­
  The critic glances, coldly dealt,
  By those who looked, and bent, and talked;
  And, even, when at last she knelt

  Alone within the pastor’s pew,
  And prayed for self-forgetfulness
  With deep humility, she knew
  She gave her figure and her dress
  To careful eyes with closer view.

  IX.

  At length she raised her head, and tossed
  A burden from her heart, and brain. 
  She would have love at any cost
  Of weary toil and patient pain,
  And rightful ease and pleasure lost!

  They could not love her for his sake;
  They would not, and her heart forgave. 
  Why should a woman stoop to take
  The poor endowment of a slave,
  And like a menial choose to make

  Her master’s mantle half her own? 
  They loved her least who loved him most: 
  They envied her her little throne! 
  He who was cherished by a host
  Was hers by gift, and hers alone,

  And she would prove her woman’s right
  To hold the throne to which the king
  Had called her, clothing her with white;
  And never would she show her ring
  To win a loving proselyte!

  These were the thoughts and this the strife
  That through her kindling spirit swept,
  And wrought her purposes of life;
  And powers that waked and powers that slept
  Within the sweet and girlish wife.

  Sprang into energy intense,
  At touch of an inspiring chrism
  That fell on her, she knew not whence,
  And lifted her to heroism
  Which wrapped her wholly, soul and sense.

  X.

  Meanwhile, through all the vaulted space
  The organ sent its angels out;
  And up and down the holy place
  They fanned the cheeks of care and doubt,
  And touched each worn and weary face

  With beauty as their wings went by: 
  Then sailed afar with peaceful sweep,
  And, calling heavenward every eye,
  Evanished into silence deep—­
  The earth forgotten in the sky!

  Then by the sunlight warmly kissed,
  Far up, in rainbow glory set,
  Rayed round with gold and amethyst,
  She saw upon the great rosette
  The Saviour’s visage, pale and trist.

  “Oh Crown of Thorns!” she softly breathed;
  “Oh precious crown of love divine! 
  Oh brow with trickling life enwreathed! 
  Oh piercing thorns and crimson sign! 
  I hold you mine in love bequeathed.

  “But not for sake of these or thee! 
  I must win love as thou hast won. 
  The thorns are mine, and all must see,
  In sacrifice, and service done,
  The loving Lord they love in me.”

  XI.

  Then, through a large and golden hour
  She listened to the golden speech
  Of one who held the priceless dower
  Of love and eloquence, that reach
  And move the hearts of men with power.