Twelve years had passed, and, still a child,
In brightness of the unblemished face,
Once more she scaled those steps, and smiled
On Him who slept in her embrace.
As in she passed there fell a calm
Around: each bosom slowly rose
Like the long branches of the palm
When under them the south wind blows.
The scribe forgot his wordy lore;
The chanted psalm was heard far off;
Hushed was the clash of golden ore;
And hushed the Sadducean scoff.
Type of the Christian Church!‘ twas thine
To offer, first, to God that hour,
Thy Son — the Sacrifice Divine,
The Church's everlasting dower!
Great Priestess! round that aureoled brow
Which cloud or shadow ne'er had crossed,
Began there not that hour to grow
A milder dawn of Pentecost?