Alone the mother was;
If this were true—God wot 'twas false,
Our hearts should sigh alas.
The child—the child—transformed! come down,
On rainbow-colored wings,
Whose flashing, o'er the mother's path,
A mystic glory flings.
He set gay flowers of heavenly pride
Amid this cursed clime—
Ah! brilliant flowers—ah! brighter flowers,