( 163 ) 



THE BURIAL OF ST. JOSEPH. 



BY JOHN GALT. 



THE sun had set to rural Bethany ; 

 But on the towers of high Jerusalem, 

 Still beam'd the glory of his amber light; 

 And spires, and vanes, and glitt'ring pinnacles 

 Crested with stars, like sacred torches round 

 Some gorgeous cenotaph or sainted shrine, 

 Environed the temple ; which, sublime, 

 Shone in the azure of the cloudless sky, 

 A bright apocalypse of domes in heaven. 



Beyond the gates, and forth the city walls, 

 The cypress grove and field of sepulchres 

 Charm'd with the murmurs of a gath'ring throng: 

 There hung in clusters on the lab' ring trees 

 Expecting children ; and apart in groupes, 

 With faces veil'd, deploring matrons stood : 

 While hoarsely fierce, insensate as the waves 

 That chafe the sands of Joppa's sounding shore, 

 Bands of rash youths and sallow artizans. 

 A raging multitude, roll'd to and fro. 



When, from afar, slow issuing from the gate, 

 Appear* d the funeral train. The angry crowd, 

 With yells and cries, and shouts of blasphemy, 

 Swift turning, rushed to whelm the solemn rites. 

 But still the dead was borne serenely on : 

 As in her course, amidst the wrack of storms, 

 The holy moon holds her accustom'd way. 

 And yet the uproar grew. Vengeance and wrath 

 Were there ; and fury, with extended arms, 

 Grasp'd for her victim ; but he meekly rais'd 

 His pitying eyes. The coming deluge stay'd : 

 Hush'd was the insolence of voice and vow ; 

 And back, receding to the right and left, 

 The aw'd and trembling multitude retir'd, 

 Forbid, rebuk'd, and wither'd in their daring. 



