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Can this be He who hither cameIn secret, like a smothered flame?O'er whom such thankful tears were shedFor shelter, and a poor Man's bread?God loves the Child; and God hath will'dThat those dear words should be fulfill'd,The Lady's words, when forc'd away,The last she to her Babe did say,"My own, my own, thy Fellow-guestI may not be; but rest thee, rest,For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"
Alas! when evil men are strongNo life is good, no pleasure long.The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,And quit the Flowers that Summer bringsTo Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
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