The Song of the Virgin

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten’d into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow’d the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the choirs of heaven among
Might well have link’d with their divinest chords.
Full many a strain, borne far on glory’s blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass’d,
No more to memory than a reed’s faint sigh;
While thine, O childlike Virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o’er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.