But, one by one, the hand of death assailed
Her children from her inmost heart bewept.
II
The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, 15
Till a winter’s noon-day placed her buried Son
Before her eyes, last child of many gone—
His raiment of angelic white, and lo!
His very feet bright as the dazzling snow
Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even 20
As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven,