THE VICTIM.

The sun methinks rose rosy-red

On that great New Year's Day,

When Blood was in the cradle shed

Where Mary's Darling lay.

The lark, uprising with the sun,

Was silent on the wing;

The nightingale, when day was done,

Forgot her song to sing.

A holy silence reigned around,

And hushed was every voice,

When in the crib the Cross was found,

The Infant-Victim's choice.

As moonbeam on a mountain-mere

The Mother's face was white;

Her eyes were stars, and every tear

Gave lustre to their light.

Methinks a blushing moon looked down

Upon that manger-bed,

And wove a mystic glory-crown

Around the Sleeper's head.

The silence issues in a song,

It rises and it swells;

E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong,

Sweeter than Philomel's,

His Church's anthem loud and long

The Victim's triumph tells.