And, purified from earth-stains, come
Radiant to its eternal home.
On rolled the star, nor paused to shed
Its glory o'er the mountain's head,
Whereon the morning's sunshine fell,
Where eve's last crimson loved to dwell;
The gilded roof, the stately fane,
The garden, nor the corn-hid plain,
The camp, where red watch-fires were keeping
Guard o'er a thousand soldiers sleeping.
But temple, palace, city past,
That star paused in the sky at last.
It paused where, roused from slumbers mild,
Lay 'mid the kine a newborn child.
Are there no clarions upon earth
To toll mankind their monarch's birth?
Are there no banners to unfold,
Heavy with purple and with gold?
Are there no flowers to strew the ground,
Nor arches with the palm-branch bound?
Nor fires to kindle on the hill?
No! man is mute—the world is still.
Ill would all earthly pomp agree
With this hour's mild solemnity;
The tidings which that infant brings,
Are not for conquerors nor for kings;
Nor for the sceptre, nor the brand,
For crowned head, nor red right hand.
