41

THE HOLY CHILD JESUS, AND HIS MOTHER.

BY THE REV. CHARLES B. TAYLER.

"Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart."-LUKE ii. 19.

MOTHER of that mysterious mortal birth,
By which the eternal Son, as man, was born,
Taking a lowly place on this sad earth,

To bear its pain and sorrow, shame and scorn:
Virgin, and mother mild,

Of that most holy Child,

Thou, of all womankind most blessed, most forlorn!

Who could portray thy feelings deep and calm,
When that fair babe lay cradled on thy breast:
His cherub form encircled by thine arm,
His soft cheek to thy tender bosom prest?
Ah, who could read thy mind,

Its musings undefined,

Its memories sadly sweet, its joys supremely blest?

G

Was there no cloud to dim the prospect bright
That opened on thy child's advancing years?
No thought of coming griefs thine hopes to blight,
Of speechless agonies, and heart-wrung tears?
No vision of the sword,

From aged Simeon's word,

To thrill thy tender heart with dark foreboding fears?

Or did each dim and gathering shade arise,
Mist-like, to melt before the morning ray?
Did the clear light of that blest Infant's eyes
Chase every dark and dismal thought away?
And childhood's joyous spring,

Its bloom and brightness bring,

To banish from thine heart the distant wintry day?

Didst thou forget the terrors of that night,
When stealing forth, a little trembling band,
To Egypt's sultry plains ye took your flight,
Across the desert's drear and scorching sand,
Till there your wearied feet

Had found a safe retreat,

Far from the lovely vales of your delightful land?