’Mother, now I tell thee, I! 
    Better is it one should die
      Than all men to hell should go.’ 
    ’Son, I see Thy body hang
    Foot and hand in pierced pang. 
      Who can wonder at my woe?’

    ’Mother, now I will thee tell,
    If I live, thou goest to hell—­
      I must die here for thy sake.’ 
    ’Son, Thou art so mild and kind,
    Nature, knowledge have enjoined
      I, for Thee, this wail must make.’

    ’Mother, ponder now this thing: 
    Sorrow childbirth still must bring,
      Sorrow ‘tis to have a son!’
    ’Ay, still sorrow, I can tell! 
    Mete it by the pain of hell,
      Since more sorrow can be none.’

    ’Mother, pity mother’s care! 
    Now as mother dost thou fare,
      Though of maids the purest known.’ 
    ’Son, Thou help at every need
    All those who before me plead—­
      Maid, wife—­woman, everyone.’

    ’Mother, here I cannot dwell. 
    Time is that I pass to hell,
      And the third day rise again.’ 
    ’Son, I would depart with Thee. 
    Lo!  Thy wounds are slaying me. 
      Death has no such sorrow—­none.’

    When He rose, then fell her sorrow. 
    Sprang her bliss on the third morrow. 
      A blythe mother wert thou so! 
    Lady, for that selfsame bliss,
    Pray thy Son who peerless is,
      Be our shield against our foe.

    Blessed be thou, full of bliss! 
    Let us not heaven’s safety miss,
      Never! through thy sweet Son’s might. 
    Jesus, for that selfsame blood
    Which Thou sheddest upon rood,
      Bring us to the heavenly light.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Martin

58 Welbeck Street:  Thursday, [September 2, 1852].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,—­Your letters always make me glad to see them, but this time the pleasure was tempered by an undeniable pain in the conscience.  Oh, I ought to have written long and long ago.  I have another letter of yours unanswered.  Also, there was a proposition in it to Robert of a tempting character, and he put off the ’no’—­the ungracious-sounding ’no’—­as long as he could.  He would have liked to have seen Mrs. Flood, as well as you; she is a favorite with us both.  But he finds it impossible to leave London.  We have had no less than eight invitations into the country, and we are forced to keep to London, in spite of all ‘babbling about’ and from ‘green fields.’  Once we went to Farnham, and spent two days with Mr. and Mrs. Paine there in that lovely heathy country, and met Mr. Kingsley, the ‘Christian Socialist,’ author of ‘Alton Locke,’ ‘Yeast,’ &c.  It is only two hours from town (or less) by railroad, and we took our child with us and Flush, and had a breath of fresh air which ought to have done us good, but didn’t.  Few men have impressed me more agreeably than Mr. Kingsley.  He is original and