I
Long, long before the Babe could speak,
When he would kiss his mother's cheek
And to her bosom press,
The brightest angels, standing near,
Would turn away to hide a tear,
For they are motherless.
II
Where were ye, Birds, that bless His name,
When wingless to the world He came,
And wordless,—tho' Himself the Word
That made the blossom and the bird?
III
TO HIS MOTHER
He brought a Lily white,
That bowed its fragrant head
And blushed a rosy red
Before her fairer light.
He brought a Rose; and lo,
The crimson blossom saw
Her beauty; and in awe
Became as white as snow.