hance
To shine on, (for even Adam was no child,)
Created from my nature all defiled,
This mystery from out mine ignorance--
Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more
Than others do, or I did heretofore?--
Can hands wherein such burden pure has been,
Not open with the cry, "Unclean, unclean!"
More oft than any else beneath the skies?
Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son!
The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise,
Must all less lowly wait
Than I, upon thy state!--
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

IX.

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe,
Come, crown me Him a king!
Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling
Their light where fell a curse.
And make a crowning for this kingly brow!--
What is my word?--Each empyreal star
Sits in a sphere afar
In shining ambuscade:
The child-brow, crowned by none,
Keeps its unchildlike shade.
Sleep, sleep, my crownless One!

X.

Unchildlike shade!--no other babe doth wear
An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.--
No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen,
To float like speech the speechless lips between;
No dovelike cooing in the golden air,
No quick short joys of leaping babyhood.
Alas, our earthly good
In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee:
Yet, sleep, my weary One!

XI.

And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy,
With the dread sense of things which shall be done,
Doth smite me inly, like a sword--a sword?--
(That "smites the Shepherd!") then I think aloud
The words "despised,"--"rejected,"--every word
Recoiling into darkness as I view
The darling on my knee.
Bright angels,--move not!--lest ye stir the cloud
Betwixt my soul and His futurity!
I must not die, with mother's work to do,
And could not live--and see.

XII.

It is enough to bear
This image still and fair--
This holier in sleep,
Than a saint at prayer:
This aspect of a child
Who never sinned or smiled--
This presence in an infant's face:
This sadness most like love,
This love than love more deep,
This weakness like omnipotence,
It is so strong to move!
Awful is this watching place,
Awful what I see from hence--
A king, without regalia,
A God, without the thunder,
A child, without the heart for play;
Ay, a Creator rent asunder