Moreover, Indian glades,
      Where kneel the sun-swart maids,
  On Gunga’s flood their votive flowers to throw,
      And launch i’ the sultry night
      Their burning cressets bright,
  Most like a fleet of stars that southing go,
      Till on her bosom prosperously
She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea.

      Nor bend they not their eyne
      Where the watch-fires shine,
  By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem: 
      They mark, in goodly wise,
      The city of David rise,
  The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem;
      And hear the ’scaped Kedron fret,
And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet.

      But now the setting moon
      To curtained lands must soon,
  In her obedient fashion, minister;
      She first, as loath to go,
      Lets her last silver flow
  Upon her Master’s sealed sepulchre;
      And trees that in the gardens spread,
She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head,

      Then ’neath the rim goes down;
      And night with darker frown
  Sinks on the fateful garden watched long;
      When some despairing eyes,
      Far in the murky skies,
  The unwished waking by their gloom foretell;
      And blackness up the welkin swings,
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings.

      Last, with amazed cry,
      The hosts asunder fly,
  Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue;
      Whence straightway shooteth down,
      By the Great Father thrown,
  A mighty angel, strong and dread to view;
      And at his fall the rocks are rent,
The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement;

      The regions far and near
      Quail with a pause of fear,
  More terrible than aught since time began;
      The winds, that dare not fleet,
      Drop at his awful feet,
  And in its bed wails the wide ocean;
      The flower of dawn forbears to blow,
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow.

      At stand, by that dread place,
      He lifts his radiant face,
  And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear;
      Then, while the welkin quakes,
      The muttering thunder breaks,
  And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear,
      And all the daunted earth doth moan,
He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone.—­

      —­In regal quiet deep,
      Lo, One new waked from sleep! 
  Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door! 
      Thy children shall not die,—­
      Peace, peace, thy Lord is by! 
  He liveth!—­they shall live for evermore. 
      Peace! lo, He lifts a priestly hand,
And blesseth all the sons of men in every land.