The sun methinks rose rosy-red
On that great New Year's Day,
When Blood was in the cradle shed
Where Mary's Darling lay.
The lark, uprising with the sun,
Was silent on the wing;
The nightingale, when day was done,
Forgot her song to sing.
A holy silence reigned around,
And hushed was every voice,
When in the crib the Cross was found,
The Infant-Victim's choice.
As moonbeam on a mountain-mere
The Mother's face was white;
Her eyes were stars, and every tear
Gave lustre to their light.
Methinks a blushing moon looked down
Upon that manger-bed,
And wove a mystic glory-crown
Around the Sleeper's head.
The silence issues in a song,
It rises and it swells;
E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong,
Sweeter than Philomel's,
His Church's anthem loud and long
The Victim's triumph tells.