Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/44

Lord!—Is it I?" while earnest pressing near,
His brother's lip, in ardent echo seems
Doubting the fearful thought.—With brow upraised,
Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul,
And springing eager from the table's foot,
Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope,
That by his ear, the Master's awful words
Had been misconstrued.—To the side of Christ,
James in the warmth of cherished friendship clings,
Yet trembles as the traitor's image steals
Into his throbbing heart:—while he, whose hand
In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds
Of Him he loved, points upward to invoke
The avenging God.—Philip, with startled gaze,
Stands in his crystal singleness of soul,
Attesting innocence, while Matthew's voice
Repeating fervently the Master's words
Rouses to agony the listening group,
Who, half incredulous with terror, seem
To shudder at his accents.

                                           All the twelve
With strong emotion strive, save one false breast
By Mammon seared, which brooding o'er its gain,
Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood.
Son of perdition!—dost thou freely breathe
In such pure atmosphere?—And canst thou hide,
'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow,
The burden of a deed whose very name
Thus strikes thy brethren pale?—

                                                    But can it be
That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene
Is the slight pencil's witchery?—I would speak
Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth
O'er the dead canvas.—But I dare not muse,
Now, of a mortal's praise.—Subdued I stand