Hushed the baby lies, so late
Entered through the crystal gate
That a calm and holy grace,
Borrowed from some blessed place,
Shineth still within her face.

Lashes, laid in slumber meek,
Fringe with gold a tender cheek,
Tinted like the dewy sprays
Of the blossomed peach, whose praise
Floods the robin's roundelays.

And as if a white-rose tree
Dropped its daintiest petal, se
How the dimpled hand gleams fair
Through the ripples of her hair,
Clasped by angels unaware.

Who shall sing her cradle-song ?
Silver streams would do her wrong ;
Whispering leaves are over rude,
And the twitter in the wood
From the linnet's nestling brood.

Flowers we shed, in lieu of speech,
With a blessing shut in each,
Culled at dawn from emerald dells,
Where the wild bee longest dwells,
Cradled deep in honey bells.