That sun-eyed Power which stands sublime
    Upon the rock that crowns our globe,
  Her feet on all the spoils of time,
    With light eternal on her robe,

  She, sovereign of the orb she guides,
    On Truth's broad sun may root a gaze
  That deepens, onward as she rides,
    And shrinks not from the fontal blaze:

  But they—her daughter Arts—must hide
    Within the cleft, content to see
  Dim skirts of glory waving wide,
    And steps of parting Deity.

'Tis theirs to watch Religion break
    In types from Nature's frown or smile,
  The legend rise from out the lake,
    The relic consecrate the isle.

  'Tis theirs to adumbrate and suggest;
    To point toward founts of buried lore;
  Leaving, in reverence, unexpressed
    What Man must know not, yet adore.

  For where her court true Wisdom keeps,
    'Mid loftier handmaids, one there stands
  Dark as the midnight's starry deeps,
    A Slave, gem-crowned, from Nubia's sands.

  O thou whose light is in thy heart
    Love-taught Submission! without thee
  Science may soar awhile; but Art
    Drifts barren o'er a shoreless sea.

  Who feels not, when the Spring once more,
    Stepping o'er Winter's grave forlorn
  With winged feet, retreads the shore
    Of widowed Earth, his bosom burn?

  As ordered flower succeeds to flower,
    And May the ladder of her sweets
  Ascends, advancing hour by hour
    From scale to scale, what heart but beats?

  Some Presence veiled, in fields and groves,
    That mingles rapture with remorse;—
  Some buried joy beside us moves,
    And thrills the soul with such discourse

  As they, perchance, that wondering pair
    Who to Emmaus bent their way,
  Hearing, heard not. Like them our prayer
    We make:—"The night is near us . . Stay!"

  With Paschal chants the churches ring;
    Their echoes strike along the tombs;
  The birds their Hallelujahs sing;
    Each flower with floral incense fumes.

  Our long-lost Eden seems restored;
    As on we move with tearful eyes
  We feel through all the illumined sward
    Some upward-working Paradise.

II.

  Upon Thy face, O God, Thy world
    Looks ever up in love and awe;
  Thy stars, in circles onward hurled,
    Still weave the sacred chain of law.

  In alternating antiphons
    Stream sings to stream and sea to sea;
  And moons that set and sinking suns
    Obeisance make, O God, to Thee.

  The swallow, winter's rage o'erblown,
    Again, on warm May breezes borne,
  Revisiteth her haunts well-known;
    The lark is faithful to the morn.

  The whirlwind, missioned with its wings
    To drown the fleet and fell the tower,
  Obeys thee as the bird that sings
    Her love-chant in a fleeting shower.

  Amid an ordered universe
    Man's spirit only dares rebel:—
  With light, O God, its darkness pierce!
    With love its raging chaos quell!

III.

  All but unutterable Name!
    Adorable, yet awful, sound!
  Thee can the sinful nations frame
    Save with their foreheads to the ground?

  Soul-searching and all-cleansing Fire!
    To see Thy countenance were to die:
  Yet how beyond the bound retire
    Of Thy serene immensity?

  Thou mov'st beside us, if the spot
    We change—a noteless, wandering tribe;
  The orbits of our life and thought
    In Thee their little arcs describe.

  In the dead calm, at cool of day,
    We hear Thy voice, and turn, and flee:—
  Thy love outstrips us on our way:
    From Thee, O God, we fly—to Thee.

IV.

  Mary! To thee the humble cry.
    What seek they? Gifts to Pride unknown.
  They seek thy help—to pass thee by:—
    They murmur, "Show us but thy Son."

  The childlike heart shall enter in;
    The virgin soul its God shall see:—
  Mother, and maiden pure from sin,
    Be thou the guide: the Way is He.

  The mystery high of God made Man
    Through thee to man is easier made:
  Pronounce the consonant who can
    Without the softer vowel's aid!

V.

  I see Him: on thy lap He lies
    'Mid that Judaean stable's gloom:
  O sweet, O awful Sacrifice!
    He smiles in sleep, yet knows His doom.

  Thou gav'st Him life! But was not this
    That life which knows no parting breath?
  Unmeasured life? unwaning bliss
    Dread Priestess, lo! thou gav'st Him death!

  Beneath the tree thy mother stood:
    Beneath the cross thou too shalt stand:—
  O Tree of Life! O bleeding Rood!
    Thy shadow stretches far its hand.

  That God who made the sun and moon
    In swaddling bands lies dumb and bound!—
  Love's Captive! darker prison soon
    Awaits Thee in the garden ground.

  He wakens. Paradise looks forth
    Beyond the portals of the grave.
  Life, life thou gavest! life to Earth,
    Not Him. Thine Infant dies to save.

VI.

  When from their lurking place the Voice
    Of God dragged forth that fallen pair,
  Still seemed the garden to rejoice;
   The sinless Eden still was fair.

  They, they alone, whose light of grace
    But late made Paradise look dim,
  Stood now, a blot upon its face,
    Before their God; nor gazed on Him.

  They glanced not up; or they had seen
    In that severe, death-dooming eye
  Unutterable depths serene
    Of sadly-piercing sympathy.

  Not them alone that Eye beheld,
    But, by their side, that other Twain,
  In whom the race whose doom was knelled
    Once more should rise; once more should reign.

{10}
  It saw that Infant crowned with blood;—
    And her from whose predestined breast
  That Infant ruled the worlds. She stood,
    Her foot upon the serpent's crest!

  Voice of primeval prophecy!
    She who makes glad whatever heart
  Adores her Son and Saviour, she
    In thee, that hour, possessed a part!

VII.

  Ascending from the convent-grates,
    The children mount the woodland vale.
'Tis