I
Long, long before the Babe could speak,
When he would kiss his mother's cheek
And to her bosom press,
The brightest angels, standing near,
Would turn away to hide a tear,
For they are motherless.
II

Where were ye, Birds, that bless His name,
When wingless to the world He came,
And wordless,-tho' Himself the Word
That made the blossom and the bird?
III: TO HIS MOTHER

He brought a Lily white,
That bowed its fragrant head
And blushed a rosy red
Before her fairer light.
He brought a Rose; and lo,
The crimson blossom saw
Her beauty; and in awe
Became as white as snow.