Classic Poem

a Fragment

'Twas scarce the dawn, nor yet the distant east
Of night's dark shades was dispossessed,
Scarce to the verge approached the rising day,
When weeping Mary to the tomb
Where her dear Redeemer lay
Brings her second rich perfume,
Does new floods of tears prepare,
Once more dedicates her hair,
Which his feet had bathed and dried,
Now to bind His hands and side;
Cruel spear! to close that wound
Where thy steel a passage found,
When thy senseless bearer ran
On the seeming vanquished man.