At the Manger

WHEN first, her Christmas watch to keep,
Came dowm the silent Angel, Sleep,
With snowy sandals shod,
Beholding what his mother’s hands
Had wrought, with softer swaddling-bands
She swathed the Son of God.
Then, skilled in mysteries of Night,
With tender visions of delight
She wreathed his resting-place,
Till, wakened by a warmer glow
Than heaven itself had yet to show,
He saw his mother’s face.