ALL the bright hues from Eastern garlands glowing, Round the young child luxuriantly are spread; Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red, Circle his hands: but, in his grave, sweet eye, Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophesy Of ruder coronals for that meek head. And thus it was! a diadem of thorn Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers; To Him who poured forth blessings in soft showers O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn! And @3we@1 repine, for whom that cup He took. O'er blooms that mocked our hope, o'er idols that forsook! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLEAD FOR ME by EMILY JANE BRONTE MAIDENHOOD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SONNET: 107 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE HEATHER ALE: A GALLOWAY LEGEND by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON LACHRYMAE MUSARUM (THE DEATH OF TENNYSON) by WILLIAM WATSON |