Within our hearts the second birth Exults, though blind as yet and dumb. The child of Grace his hands puts forth, And prophesies of things to come. {29} XXIV. Not yet, not yet! the Season sings Not of fruition yet, but hope; Still holds aloft, like balanced wings, Her scales, and lets not either drop. The white ash, last year's skeleton, Still glares, uncheered by leaf or shoot, 'Gainst azure heavens, and joy hath none In that fresh violet at her foot. Yet Nature's virginal suspense Is not forgetfulness nor sloth: Where'er we wander, soul and sense Discern a blindly working growth. Her throne once more the daisy takes, That white star of our dusky earth; And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakes Her passion of seraphic mirth. Twixt barren hills and clear cold skies She weaves, ascending high and higher, Songs florid as those traceries Which took, of old, their name from fire. Sing! thou that need'st no ardent clime To sun the sweetness from thy breast; And teach us those delights sublime Wherein ascetic spirits rest! {30} _Fest Nativitatis B.V.M._ XXV. When thou wert born the murmuring world Boiled on, nor dreamed of things to be, From joy to sorrow madly whirled;-- Despair disguised in revelry. A princess thou of David's line; The mother of the Prince of Peace; That hour no royal pomps were thine: The earth alone her boon increase. Before thee poured. September rolled Down all the vine-clad Syrian slopes Her breadths of purple and of gold; And birds sang loud from olive tops. Perhaps old foes, they knew not why, Relented. From a fount long sealed Tears rose, perhaps, to Pity's eye: Love-harvests crowned the barren field. {31} The respirations of the year. At least, grew soft. O'er valleys wide Pine-roughened crags again shone clear; And the great Temple, far descried, To watchers, watching long in vain, To patriots grey, in bondage nursed, Flashed back their hope--"The Second Fane In glory shall surpass the First!" {32} XXVI. The moon, ascending o'er a mass Of tangled yew and sable pine, What sees she in yon watery glass? A tearful countenance divine. Far down, the winding hills between, A sea of vapour bends for miles, Unmoving. Here and there, dim-seen, The knolls above it rise like isles. The tall rock glimmers, spectre-white; The cedar in its sleep is stirred; At times the bat divides the night; At times the far-off flood is heard. Above, that shining blue!--below, That shining mist! O, not more pure Midwinter's landscape, robed in snow, And fringed with frosty garniture. The fragrance of the advancing year-- That, that assures us it is May. Ah, tell me! in the heavenlier sphere Must all of earth have passed away? {33} XXVII.