Classic Poem

Shall I whisper a name that was lovely of old,
When the tale of the infant Messiah was told—
The honored of God, in her sorrow sublime,
Still haunting the heart in the shadows of Time?

O'er the starlight of Judah the night mists were rolled,
On the Galilee's bosom the night winds were cold,—
When it woke on the midnight, so solemn and dim,
With the flame of a Star and the sound of a hymn,

Is its magic decayed? Is its mission fulfilled?
Is its memory cold, or its melody stilled?
Can its syllabled music still people the air
With the visions of love and the voices of prayer?

Yea, bright with the luster and sweet with the tone
Of the angels that sang and the Glory that shone,
Its echoes are soft, through the haze of the years,
With the breath of her sigh and the dew of her tears.

And still at the altar, and still at the hearth,
From the cradle of Christ to the ends of the earth,
As gentle in glory, as steadfast in gloom,
It tells of the Manger, the Cross, and the Tomb.

And many shall bless it, and many have blest,
In the morning of life, in the morrow of rest;
And its fullness of meaning its music shall keep
While a Mary shall watch or a Mary shall weep.