What mother-angel tended thee last night,
Sweet baby mine?
Cradled upon what breast all soft and white
Didst thou recline?
Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art,
Within her arms?
And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart,
From all alarms?
Surely that God who lured thee from the breast
That hoped to be
The softest pillow and the sweetest rest
Thenceforth to thee,
Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown
Without a guide,
To grope in darkness, treading all alone
The path untried.
Compassionate is He who called thee, child;
And well I know
He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild
With thee to go
Through the dark valley, where the shadows dim
Forever brood,
That the low music of an angel’s hymn
Might cheer the solitude!