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CCCXIV

Give me a tender spotless child,

Rehearsing or at eve or morn

His chant of glory undefiled,

The Creed that with the Church was born:--

Down be his earnest forehead cast,

His slender fingers join'd for prayer,

With half a frown his eye seal'd fast

Against the world's intruding glare.

Who,--while his lips so gently move,

And all his look is purpose strong,

Can say what wonders, wrought above,

Upon his unstain'd fancy throng?

The world new-framed, the CHRIST new-born,

The Mother-Maid, the cross and grave,

The rising sun on Easter morn,

The fiery tongues sent down to save,--

The gathering Church, the Font of Life,

The saints and mourners kneeling round,

The Day to end the body's strife,

The Saviour in His people crown'd,--

All in majestic march and even

To the veil'd eye by turns appear,

True to their time as stars in heaven,--

No morning dream so still and clear.

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