Three cottages that overlooked the sea
  Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. 
  Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs,
  Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red,
  Layer upon layer built up against the sky. 
  In front a row of sloping meadows lay,
  Parted by narrow streams, that rose above,
  Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below
  Into deep channels widening to the sea.

  Within the humblest of these three abodes
  Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. 
  A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew,
  With many blossoms, on their cottage front;
  And o’er the gable warmed by the South
  A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves
  Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung
  Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. 
  And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows
  Which the sun spreads from some old oriel
  Upon the marble Altar and the gold
  Of God’s own Tabernacle, where he dwells
  For ever, so the blossoms and the vine,
  On Jesus’ home climbing above the roof,
  Traced intricate their windings all about
  The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests
  Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. 
  And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed
  Between the gable-window and the eaves,
  Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love
  From Mary’s kinsman Zachary to her child)
  Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear
  The ever dying sound of falling waves.

  And so it came to pass, one Summer morn,
  The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out
  To see the sun.  It was her only one,
  And she had breasted it through three long weeks
  With patient instinct till it broke the shell;
  And she had nursed it with all tender care,
  Another three, and watched the white down grow
  Into full feather, till it left her nest. 
  And now it stood outside its narrow home,
  With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes;
  While, hovering near, the old dove often tried
  By many lures to tempt it to the ground,
  That they might feed from Jesus’ hand, who stood
  Watching them from below.  The timid bird
  At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings,
  Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down. 
  Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice
  Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop
  On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled
  About the sunken talons as it died. 
  Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child,
  Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped
  His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft
  I’ the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey. 
  And Jesus heard the mother’s anguished cry,
  Weak like the distant sob of some lost child,
  Who in his terror runs from path to path,
  Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove,
  As though death-stricken, beat about the air;
  Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head
  Deep in her ruffled feathers.  She sat there,
  Brooding upon her loss, and did not move
  All through that day.