XXVIII.

Twelve years had passed, and, still a child, In brightness of the unblemished face, Once more she scaled those steps, and smiled On Him who slept in her embrace.

As in she passed there fell a calm Around: each bosom slowly rose Like the long branches of the palm When under them the south wind blows.

The scribe forgot his wordy lore; The chanted psalm was heard far off; Hushed was the clash of golden ore; And hushed the Sadducean scoff.

Type of the Christian Church! 'twas thine To offer, first, to God that hour, Thy Son—the Sacrifice Divine, The Church's everlasting dower!

Great Priestess! round that aureoled brow Which cloud or shadow ne'er had crossed, Began there not that hour to grow A milder dawn of Pentecost?