V. We sat among the stalls at Bethlehem. The dumb kine, from their fodder turning them, To almost human gazes Toward the newly born. The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange, sweet angel-tongue. The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, These baby-hands were impotent to hold. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One! I am not proud, VI. meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest On mortal lips, "I am not proud," -not proud! Albeit in my flesh God sent his Son, Albeit over Him my head is bowed, As others bow before Him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees. O centuries, That roll, in vision, your futurities My future grave athwart, Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep Say of me as the Heavenly said: "Thou art The blessedest of women!"-blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest, no high name, Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, When I sit meek in heaven ! VII. For me, God knows that I am feeble like the rest! for me, I often wandered forth, more child than maiden, Whose summits looked heaven-laden; God's voice, so soft yet strong, so fain to press And show its vileness by a holiness. Raising my small face to the boundless blue VIII. So, seeing my corruption, can I see To shine on (for even Adam was no child), Can hands wherein such burden pure has been, The kine, the shepherds, the abaséd wise, Than I, upon Thy state! Sleep, sleep, my kingly One! IX. Art Thou a king, then? Come, his universe, Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling Their light where fell a curse, And make a crowning for this kingly brow!- Sits in a sphere afar In shining ambuscade : The child-brow, crowned by none, Keeps its unchildlike shade. Sleep, sleep, my crownless One! X. Unchildlike shade! - no other babe doth wear An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou. No small babe-smiles my watching heart has seen, No quick, short joys of leaping babyhood. Alas! our earthly good, In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee : XI. And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy, rejected," every word Recoiling into darkness as I view The DARLING on my knee. Bright angels, move not! lest ye stir the cloud I must not die, with mother's work to do, And could not live and see. XII. It is enough to bear This image still and fair,— This holier in sleep Than a saint at prayer: This aspect of a child Who never sinned or smiled, This presence in an infant's face : |