When from the baby's hand they took,
With a large gentleness.
The tiptoe-proferred grass, and bent
Their great dark eyes to express
How Httle mind they had to do her wrong.
These meek that are the strong ;—

Oh, then 'twas clear why the old tale
Tells that the people's God,
When pitying he turned from heaven
And broke his heavy rod.
Did choose his infant cradle should be set
Where beasts of burden ate.

'Twas his humility, men say ;
No, no, it was his pride,
That none but innocence should stand
So near the heaven-eyed;
And all that's vain and false should find no space
In his first resting-place.

By such great simpleness shut out
All save the sweet of breath,—
No lie, no pitiful foul jest, no taimt.
No scandal plumed for death,—
The dim lit stable did more cleanness hold.
Than palaces of gold.

Ah, not to them, the fretful men
Running with eager feet
To fetch the cross and bitter thorns
That should their Saviour greet,
But to the gentle ones of earth 'twas given.
This earliest glimpse of heaven.