"May nothing be wanting to thee,
With roses I will cover thee,
With violet garlands I will entwine thee.
Thy bed shall be among the hyacinthus,
Thy cradle built up with the petals of white lilies.
Thousands of praises we sing to thee,
A thousand thousand thousands.
"If thou wishest for music
I will instantly call together the shepherds.
None are before them,
No mortal sings more holy songs.
Thousands of praises we sing to thee,
A thousand thousand thousands."
If aught be distinct in this early Christian lullaby, it is that old-time ideas of "stars on high," "the sky is full of sleep," and other similar figures of mythical word-pictures are wanting. A mother's sympathy and affection alone bind together the words of her song in illimitable praises—a thousand thousand thousands.
Milton says—
"But see the Virgin blest
Hath laid her babe to rest."
What a bright sanctified glory the child King brought to his baby throne.
"Thee in all children, the eternal child. Thee to whom the wise men gave adoration, and the shepherds praise."
What countless hosts of child-bands are ever singing some dreamy lullaby of praise to their child King.
In the pastoral district of Vallauria, in the heart of the Ligurian Alps, within a day's journey from the orange groves of Mentone, a yearly festival takes place, when the children of the mountains sing a stanza recalling the Virgin's song—
"If thou wishest for music I will instantly call together the shepherds. None are before them."