Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing, Round the young Child luxuriantly are spread; Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red, Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye, Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy Of ruder coronals for that meek head. And thus it was! a diadem of thorn Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers, To him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn! And we repine, for whom that cup He took, O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook!