How many a lonely hermit maid Hath brightened like a dawn-touched isle When—on her breast in vision laid— That Babe hath lit her with his smile! How many an agèd saint hath felt, So graced, a second spring renew Her wintry breast; with Anna knelt, And trembled like the matin dew! How oft the unbending monk, no thrall In youth of mortal smiles or tears, Hath felt that Infant's touch through all The armor of his hundred years! But Mary's was no transient bliss; Nor hers a vision's phantom gleam; The hourly need, the voice, the kiss— That child was hers! 'Twas not a dream! At morning hers, and when the sheen Of moonrise crept the cliffs along; In silence hers, and hers between The pulses of the night-bird's song. And as the Child, the love. Its growth Was, hour by hour, a growth in grace; That Child was God; and love for both Advanced perforce with equal pace. Aubrey De Vere.

← CHAPTER VII.SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILLE. →