At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed. No pomp was there, no glory shone around On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed,-- In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid! The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed; Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, "Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn! In David's city Christ the Lord is born! 'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high,-- 'Good-will to men!' the listening Earth reply!" They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. No trembling word the mother's joy revealed,-- One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, But kept their words to ponder in her heart. Twelve years had passed; the boy was fair and tall, Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped to fill Their balanced urns beside the mountain-rill,-- The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet son. No voice had reached the Galilean vale Of star-led kings or awe-struck shepherds' tale; In the meek, studious child they only saw The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law. So grew the boy; and now the feast was near, When at the holy place the tribes appear. Scarce had the home-bred child of Nazareth seen Beyond the hills that girt the village-green, Save when at midnight, o'er the star-lit sands, Snatched from the steel of Herod's murdering bands, A babe, close-folded to his mother's breast, Through Edom's wilds he sought the sheltering West. Then Joseph spake: "Thy boy hath largely grown; Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown; Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest: Goes he not with us to the holy feast?" And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white; Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light; The thread was twined; its parting meshes through From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, Till the full web was wound upon the beam,-- Love's curious toil,--a vest without a seam! They reach the holy place, fulfil the days To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. At last they turn, and far Moriah's height Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. All day the dusky caravan has flowed In devious trails along the winding road (For many a step their homeward path attends,-- And all the sons of Abraham are as friends). Evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy;-- Hush! hush!--that whisper,--"Where is Mary's boy?"