Nor let the proud heart say,
In her self-torturing hour,
The travail pangs must have their way,
The aching brow must lower. 
To us long since the glorious Child is born
Our throes should be forgot, or only seem
Like a sad vision told for joy at morn,
For joy that we have waked and found it but a dream.

Mysterious to all thought
A mother’s prime of bliss,
When to her eager lips is brought
Her infant’s thrilling kiss. 
O never shall it set, the sacred light
Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze,
In the eternal distance blending bright
Her darling’s hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.

No need for her to weep
Like Thracian wives of yore,
Save when in rapture still and deep
Her thankful heart runs o’er. 
They mourned to trust their treasure on the main,
Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide: 
Welcome to her the peril and the pain,
For well she knows the bonus where they may safely hide.

She joys that one is born
Into a world forgiven,
Her Father’s household to adorn,
And dwell with her in Heaven. 
So have I seen, in Spring’s bewitching hour,
When the glad Earth is offering all her best,
Some gentle maid bend o’er a cherished flower,
And wish it worthier on a Parent’s heart to rest.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away:  for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send Him unto you.  St. John xvi 7.

My Saviour, can it ever be
That I should gain by losing Thee? 
The watchful mother tarries nigh,
Though sleep have closed her infant’s eye;
For should he wake, and find her gone. 
She knows she could not bear his moan. 
But I am weaker than a child,
   And Thou art more than mother dear;
Without Thee Heaven were but a wild;
   How can I live without Thee here!

“’Tis good for you, that I should go,
“You lingering yet awhile below;” —
’Tis Thine own gracious promise, Lord! 
Thy saints have proved the faithful word,
When heaven’s bright boundless avenue
Far opened on their eager view,
And homeward to Thy Father’s throne,
   Still lessening, brightening on their sight,
Thy shadowy car went soaring on;
   They tracked Thee up th’ abyss of light.

Thou bidd’st rejoice; they dare not mourn,
But to their home in gladness turn,
Their home and God’s, that favoured place,
Where still He shines on Abraham’s race,
In prayers and blessings there to wait
Like suppliants at their Monarch’s gate,
Who bent with bounty rare to aid
   The splendours of His crowning day,
Keeps back awhile His largess, made
   More welcome for that brief delay: