A stately prophetess of victory
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest’s tone,
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of heaven! that hour: but thou, oh! thou,
E’en as a flower with gracious rains o’erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th’ all-holy word,
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.
THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.
Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow,