'Tis midnight; and the minstrelsy of air
Earth breathes in echoes to the starry skies;
And o'er the stable-roof, to shepherds' eyes
A beam of glory tells that he is there.
Within, the Mother kneels, her birth-night prayer
Unto the Child Divine all glowing flies—
He listens; yet an Infant, passive lies.
A lapse of years. The torches' ruddy glare
With saddest twilight mingles, to illume
The night fast gathering, where low they lay
In the cold silence of the rock-hewn tomb
A sacred Burden, till the Easter day.
And she, whose glance of rapture first was cast
On that still Brow, there weeping lingers last.