With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.

Yet, no! those soft, slight arms enfold a helpless new-born
child,
Late entered on this world of woe--still pure and undefiled;
While two white doves she humbly lays before the altar there
Tell that, despite her girlish years, she knows a matron's care.

No fairer sight could heart have asked than that which met the
view,
E'en had He been the child of sin--and she a sinner, too;
But how must heavenly hosts have looked in breathless rapture on,
Knowing Him, as the Temple's Lord--the Word--th'Eternal Son!

While _she_ was that Maid Mother rare--fairest of Adam's race,
Whom Heaven's Archangel, bending low, had hailed as full of
grace,--
The Mother of that infant God close clasped unto her breast--
the Mary humble, meek and pure, above all women _blessed_.




OUR SAVIOUR'S BOYHOOD.


With what a flood of wondrous thoughts
Each Christian breast must swell
When, wandering back through ages past,
With simple faith they dwell