Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o’er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-fill’d with rich midsummer’s red,
Circle his hands: but, in his grave, sweet eye,
Thought seems e’en now to wake, and prophesy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers;
To Him who pour’d forth blessings in soft showers
O’er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!
And we repine, for whom that cup He took,
O’er blooms that mock’d our hope, o’er idols that forsook!