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.