THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882.
Reading edition
Wondrous portent, set on high, Moving through the silent sky, Clothed in formless majesty,— Who can read those words of light On the star-lit wall of night? “Mene, Tekel,” dost thou write? Nay, thou bright Star in the East, O’er no haughty monarch’s feast, Prophet nor Chaldæan priest, Doth thy gentle radiance shine; Nobler resting-place is thine, ’Tis a Baby’s brow divine. With the waning of the year From afar thou dost appear, Telling us that Christ is near.
