And now as soft as vesper bells,
The soul’s deep song more faintly swells.
Is it because, the while she sings,
Like Mary, pondering “these things,”
She thinks of angels far away,
And Him who in a manger lay?—
The Blessed Babe the Virgin press’d
Adoringly to her pure breast?
The Holy Child, forever dear,—
The Son of God, forever near,—