“O come, O come,” the mother pray’d
And hush’d her babe: “let me behold
Once more thy stately form array’d
Like autumn woods in green and gold!

“I see thy brethren come and go;
Thy peers in stature, and in hue
Thy rivals. Same like monarchs glow
With richest purple: some are blue

“As skies that tempt the swallow back;
Or red as, seen o’er wintry seas,
The star of storm; or barr’d with black
And yellow, like the April bees.

“Come they and go! I heed not, I.
Yet others hail their advent, cling
All trustful to their side, and fly
Safe in their gentle piloting

“To happy homes on heath or hill,
By park or river. Still I wait
And peer into the darkness: still
Thou com’st not—I am desolate.

“Hush! hark! I see a towering form!
From the dim distance slowly roll’d
It rocks like lilies in a storm,
And O, its hues are green and gold:

“It comes, it comes! Ah rest is sweet,
And there is rest, my babe, for us!”
She ceased, as at her very feet
Stopp’d the St. John’s Wood omnibus.