The Shepherds went their hasty Way
Where the virgin-mother lay;
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother’s song the virgin-mother sung.
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother’s song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth!
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed;
And while she cried, The Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
Thou mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet music’s loudest note, the poet’s story,—
Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?
And is not War a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.
‘Tell this in some more courtly scene
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And therefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child.
‘A murderous fiend by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
‘Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease;
I’m poor and of a low estate,
The mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.’