O Mother dear, to whom came Gabriel With message like a sword, Who bowed thyself in meekness at the well-- The Handmaid of the Lord! Mother of Men, triumphant o'er the brute, Hailed highly favored from the Holy Place, The splendor of Earth's meaning in thy Face, Her ultimate Flower and Fruit! O Babe Divine, for whom the angels sang O'er Bethlehem's fields of old, When through the darkness heavenly carols rang And heavenly tidings told! O Child of Heaven, to whom all hearts aspire, In incense clouds of prayer that upward burn, In wakening throbs of Life that constant yearn-- Rich Spring-tide of desire! Beyond the temporal tides whose course has run In realms where space has burst her ancient bars, I see the Woman clothed with the Sun, And circled with the stars. With feet upon the changeful Moon, she stands, And on her face a look divinely mild, She holds secure with tender, human hands The Everlasting Child. O ancient Mother, ever Virgin, young With youth renewed through all the ages, Sign Of Hope, the age-long prayer of every tongue, And Victory divine! Hold Thou that Hope that bursts upon our night-- Babe by thee suckled, sustenant of thee, Beacon enkindled from the Eternal Light, For all the world to see! Sing all ye angel conclave of the skies, Who at Creation's birth did shout for joy, And hailed the task begun! Now let your songs of triumph higher rise, And all your heavenliest melodies employ, To praise Creation done! And sing, ye creatures from the lowest deep, Whose groans have risen: 'O Lord, O Lord, how long?' Expectant of the dawn! High festival with men and angels keep, Upraise from Earth to Heaven the endless song, And hail the Babe new-born! XI. The Vision of the Kings _A woman, with her baby at her breast, is depicted meditating, half to herself and half to her child, upon the Christmas story. The poem endeavors to trace the pathway of her thought._ The Vision of the Kings I. O Virginal mother of men, in whose fathomless eyes-- Soft eyes too familiar with tears, Past sorrow and faith in the future both wistfully wait The gladness that comes with the years! Asleep on your breast and content, that futurity lies, Nor frets nor frowns at its fate. While half to yourself and half to your baby you sing The story undying miraculous Christmases bring: "There came three kings from far away, from far away, from far away, And o'er the crib of Bethlehem their guiding star its course did stay. Along the road beneath that star the way ahead like silver shone: So came they to the King of kings and poured their gifts before His throne." II.