The Ox he openeth wide the Doore
    And from the Snowe he calls her inne,
  And he hath seen her smile therefore,
    Our Ladye without Sinne. 
      Now soone from Sleepe
      A Starre shall leap,
  And soone arrive both King and Hinde;
          Amen, Amen: 
  But oh, the place co’d I but finde!

  The Ox hath husht his voyce and bent
    Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow,
  And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
    The Blessed lays her Browe. 
      Around her feet
      Full Warme and Sweete
  His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell;
          Amen, Amen: 
  But sore am I with Vaine Travel!

  The Ox is host in Juda’s stall,
    And Host of more than onelie one. 
  For close she gathereth withal
    Our Lorde her littel Sonne. 
      Glad Hinde and King
      Their Gyfte may bring,
  But wo’d to-night my Teares were there,
          Amen, Amen: 
  Between her Bosom and His hayre!

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.

* * * * *

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.

    A BALLAD.

  There’s a legend that’s told of a gypsy who dwelt
    In the lands where the pyramids be;
  And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her belt
    With devices right wondrous to see;
  And she lived in the days when our Lord was a child
    On his mother’s immaculate breast;
  When he fled from his foes,—­when to Egypt exiled,
    He went down with Saint Joseph the blest.

  This Egyptian held converse with magic, methinks,
    And the future was given to her gaze;
  For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx
    On her threshold kept vigil always. 
  She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen
    In the haunts of the dissolute crowd;
  But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, I ween,
    Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud.

  And there came an old man from the desert one day,
    With a maid on a mule by that road;
  And a child on her bosom reclined, and the way
    Let them straight to the gypsy’s abode;
  And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome path,
    From thence many, many a league,—­
  From a tyrant’s pursuit, from an enemy’s wrath,
    Spent with toil and o’ercome with fatigue.

  And the gypsy came forth from her dwelling, and prayed
    That the pilgrims would rest them awhile;
  And she offered her couch to that delicate maid,
    Who had come many, many a mile. 
  And she fondled the babe with affection’s caress,
    And she begged the old man would repose;
  “Here the stranger,” she said, “ever finds free access,
    And the wanderer balm for his woes.”