We wait for M. Topin to answer.
ON A PICTURE OF NAZARETH.
In dreams no longer, but revealed to sight,
Comes o'er us, like a vision after death,
That shrine of tenderest worship—that delight
Of loftiest contemplation—Nazareth.
Fair-throned as when creation's King and Queen
Abode within its walls, it looks around
As scorning time and change; though these have been
The ruthless masters of its hallowed ground.
Still smiling as of old, it catches still
As fresh a morning; basks in such a noon;
Hears evening's voice as sweetly softly thrill;
In glory sleeps beneath a gushing moon.
Still looms the Mountain of Precipitation
In sadness o'er a vale serene and bright,
As when the Saviour foiled his frenzied nation,
Who fain had cast him headlong from the height.
And see upon the slope the very gate
Where—spot to kiss!—a lowly footstep fell,
As daily passed the Maid Immaculate
To fill her pitcher yonder at the well.
That well! where mirrored shone the loveliest face
That ever woman wore! 'Tis there—the same!
Though hating Christ and Juda's banished race,
The Moslems honor there the Virgin's name.
Give thanks, my soul! give thanks that thou hast seen.
Make Nazareth all a well of grace; and pray
To keep its taste within thee—which has been
The strength of saints. Drink deep, and go thy way.