Around the roses of her face
Her flaxen ringlets fell;
No lovelier bosom than her own
Could guiltless sorrow swell!

The holy book before her lay,
That boon to mortals given,
To teach the way from weeping earth
To ever-glorious heaven;

And Mary read prophetic words,
That whisper'd of her doom--
"Oh! they will search for me, but where
I am, they cannot come!"

The tears forsook her gentle eyes,
And wet the sacred lore;
And such a terror shook her frame,
She ne'er had known before.

She ceas'd to weep, but deeper gloom
Her tearless musing brought;
And darker wan'd the evening hour,
And darker Mary's thought.

The sun, he set behind the hills,
And threw his fading fire
On mountain rock and village home,
And lit the distant spire.