From Satan's breath, from Herod's sword,
The cradle where Thou watchest, Lord,
Is safe : the Avenger's rushing cry
Is like a sister's lullaby.



“ And he was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow : and they awake him, and say unto him, Master, carest thou not that we perish ?”

WHILE snows, even from the mild South-west,

Come blinding o'er all day,
What kindlier home, what safer nest,

For flower or fragrant spray,
Than underneath some cottage roof,

Where fires are bright within,
And fretting cares scowl far aloof,

And doors are closed on sin ?

The scarlet tufts so cheerily

Look out upon the snow,
But gayer smiles the maiden's eye

Whose guardian care they know.

The buds that in that nook are born

Through the dark howling day Old Winter's spite they laugh to scorn :

What is so safe as they ?

Nay, look again : beside the hearth

The lowly cradle mark, Where, wearied with his ten hours' mirth,

Sleeps in his own warm ark
A bright-haired babe, with arm upraised,

As though the slumberous dew
Stole o'er him, while in faith he gazed

Upon his Guardian true.


may rush in, and crimes and woes Deform the quiet bower ;They may not mar the deep repose

Of that immortal flower.
Though only broken hearts be found

To watch his cradle by,
No blight is on his slumbers sound,

No touch of harmful eye.

So gently slumber'd on the wave

The new-born seer of old, Ordained the chosen tribes to save ;

Nor dream'd how darkly rollid
The waters by his rushy brake,

Perchance even now defiled
With infants' blood for Israel's sake,

Blood of some priestly child.

What recks he of his mother's tears,

His sister's boding sigh ? The whispering reeds are all he hears,

And Nile, soft weltering nigh, Sings him to sleep ; but he will wake,

And o'er the haughty flood Wave his stern rod ;—and lo ! a lake,

A restless sea of blood !

Soon shall a mightier flood thy call

And outstretch'd rod obey ;To right and left the watery wall

From Israel shrinks away


Such honour wins the faith that

gave Thee and thy sweetest boon Of infant charms to the rude wave,

In the third joyous moon.

Hail, chosen Type and Image true

Of Jesus on the Sea !
In slumber and in glory too,

Shadowed of old by thee.
Save that in calmness thou didst sleep

The summer stream beside, He on a wider wilder deep,

Where boding night-winds sigh'd :

Sigh'd when at eve He laid Him down,

But with a sound like flame
At midnight from the mountain's crown

Upon His slumbers came.-
Lo, how they watch, till He awake,

Around His rude low bed :
How wistful count the waves that break

So near His sacred Head !

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