Classic Poem

There's a legend that's told of a gipsy who dwelt
In the land where the Pyramids be;
And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her belt
With devices, right wondrous to see:
And she lived in the days when our Lord was a child
On his mother's immaculate breast;
When he fled from his foes—when to Egypt exiled,
He went down with St. Joseph the blest.

This Egyptian held converse with magic, methinks,
And the future was given to her gaze;
For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx
On her threshold kept vigil always.
She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen
In the naunts of the dissolute crowd;
But commnned with the ghosts of the
Pharachs, I ween,
Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud.

And there came an old man from the desert one day,
With a maid on a mute, by that road;
And a child on her bosom reclined—and the way
Led them straight to the gipsy's abode:
And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome path,
From their home many, many a league—
From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath,
Spent with toil, and o'ercome with fatigue.

And the gipsy came forth from her dwelling, and prayed
That the pilgrims would rest them awhile;
And she offered her couch to that delicate maid,
Who had come many many a mile;
And she fondled the babe with affection's caress,
And she begged the old man would repose;
Here the stranger, she said, ever finds free access,
And the wanderer balm for his woes.

Then her guests from the glare of the noonday she led
To a seat in her grotto so cool;
Where she spread them a banquet of fruits—and a shed,
With a manger, was found for the mule;
With the wine of the palm-tree, with the dates newly culled,
All the toil of the road she beguiled;
And with song in a language mysterious she lulled
On her bosom the wayfaring child.

When the gipsy anon in her Ethiop hand
Placed the infant's diminutive palm,
Oh 'twas fearful to see how the features she scanned
Of the babe in his slumber so calm!
Well she noted each mark and each furrow that crossed
O'er the tracings of destiny's line:
“W HENCE CAME YE !” she cried, in astonishment lost,
“F OR THIS CHILD IS OF LINEAGE DIVINE !”

“From the village of Nazareth,” Joseph replied,
“Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew;
We have fled from a tyrant, whose garment is dyed
In the gore of the children he slew:
We were told to remain till an angel's command
Should appoint us the hour to return;
But till then we inhabit the foreigner's land,
And in Egypt we make our sojourn.”

“Then ye tarry with me!” cried the gipsy in joy,
“And ye make of my dwelling you home:
Many years have I prayed that the Israelite boy
(Blessed hope of the Gentiles!) would come,”
And she kissed both the feet of the infant and knelt,
And adored him at once;—then a smile
Lit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dwelt
With her host on the banks of the Nile.