Then Joseph spake:  “Thy boy hath largely grown;
     Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown;
     Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest
     Goes he not with us to the holy feast?”

     And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white;
     Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. 
     The thread was twined; its parting meshes through
     From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew,
     Till the full web was wound upon the beam,
     Love’s curious toil,—­a vest without a seam!

     They reach the holy place, fulfil the days
     To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. 
     At last they turn, and far Moriah’s height
     Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. 
     All day the dusky caravan has flowed
     In devious trails along the winding road,
     (For many a step their homeward path attends,
     And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.)
     Evening has come,—­the hour of rest and joy;
     Hush! hush!—­that whisper,-"Where is Mary’s boy?”

     O weary hour!  O aching days that passed
     Filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last: 
     The soldier’s lance,—­the fierce centurion’s sword,
     The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord,
     The midnight crypt that suck’s the captive’s breath,
     The blistering sun on Hinnom’s vale of death!

     Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light,
     Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night,
     Crouched by some porphyry column’s shining plinth,
     Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.

     At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more
     The Temple’s porches, searched in vain before;
     They found him seated with the ancient men,
     The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,
     Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near;
     Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear,
     Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise
     That lips so fresh should utter words so wise.

     And Mary said,—­as one who, tried too long,
     Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,
     “What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? 
     Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!”
     Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,
     Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown;
     Then turned with them and left the holy hill,
     To all their mild commands obedient still.

     The tale was told to Nazareth’s sober men,
     And Nazareth’s matrons told it oft again;
     The maids retold it at the fountain’s side;
     The youthful shepherds doubted or denied;
     It passed around among the listening friends,
     With all that fancy adds and fiction fends,
     Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown
     Of Joseph’s son, who talked the Rabbis down.