I
       &nbspThe shepherds went their hasty way,
       &nbsp       &nbspAnd found the lowly stable-shed
       &nbspWhere the Virgin-Mother lay:
       &nbsp       &nbspAnd now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.

II
       &nbspThey told her how a glorious light,
       &nbsp       &nbspStreaming from a heavenly throng,
       &nbspAround them shone, suspending night!
       &nbsp       &nbspWhile sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

III
       &nbspShe listened to the tale divine,
       &nbsp       &nbspAnd closer still the Babe she pressed;
       &nbspAnd while she cried, the Babe is mine!
       &nbsp       &nbspThe milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

IV
       &nbspThou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
       &nbsp       &nbspPoor, simple, and of low estate!
       &nbspThat strife should vanish, battle cease,
       &nbsp       &nbspO why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,—
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

V
       &nbspAnd is not War a youthful king,
       &nbsp       &nbspA stately Hero clad in mail?
       &nbspBeneath his footsteps laurels spring;
       &nbsp       &nbspHim Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

VI
       &nbsp'Tell this in some more courtly scene,
       &nbsp       &nbspTo maids and youths in robes of state!
       &nbspI am a woman poor and mean,
       &nbsp       &nbspAnd therefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the agéd father tears his child!

VII
       &nbsp'A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
       &nbsp       &nbspHe kills the sire and starves the son;
       &nbspThe husband kills, and from her board
       &nbsp       &nbspSteals all his widow's toil had won;
Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

VIII
       &nbsp'Then wisely is my soul elate,
       &nbsp       &nbspThat strife should vanish, battle cease:
       &nbspI'm poor and of a low estate,
       &nbsp       &nbspThe Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.