LUKE i. 80.
Child, amid the honeyed flowers
Passing life's bright morning hours—
Playing in the silver rills,
Where they bathe Judea's hills—
Looking, with an earnest eye,
At the wild bird flitting by—
Infant of the joyous heart,
Canst thou tell me who thou art?
Thou, whose little hand in play
Hurls the clustered grapes away;
While thou lov'st to watch the bee,
Or to win a lamb to thee,
And to see the fleecy flock
Resting by the shadowy rock,—
Know'st thou, tender, beauteous boy,
What 's thine errand—whence thy joy?
'T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,
By the altar, while the smoke
From thy father's incense rolled,
When thy being was foretold!
Thou art come, the promised one,
As the dayspring to the sun,
Soon to usher in new light
Through the realms of death and night!
Heavenly innocence is now
Marked upon thy peaceful brow:
God's own Spirit filleth thee,
Sainted babe; for thou art he,
Who before the Lamb shall go,
Crying, that the world may know
He hath life to give the dead,
In the blood he comes to shed!
Though, from nature wild and rude,
Come thy raiment, rest, and food,
Nightly o'er thy desert sleep,
Angels shall their vigils keep;
Through the wilderness by day,
They will guard and lead the way;
Till to Israel thou appear,
Showing heaven's mild kingdom near.
High and glorious, then, the part
For thine eye, and hand, and heart!
When thy feet, on Jordan's side,
Feel the waters, as they glide,
Thou the Son of God shalt see,
Come to be baptized of thee—
Hear him named, and see the Dove
Resting on him from above!