midnight
The maids of Nazareth , as they trooped to fill Their balanced urns beside the mountain-rill , The gathered matrons , as they sat and spun , Spoke in soft words of Joseph 's quiet son . No voice had reached the Galilean vale Of star-led kings or awe-struck shepherds ' tale ; In the meek , studious child they only saw The future Rabbi , learned in Israel 's law . So grew the boy ; and now the feast was near , When at the holy place the tribes appear . Scarce had the home-bred child of Nazareth seen Beyond the hills that girt the village-green , Save when at midnight , o'er the star-lit sands , Snatched from the steel of Herod 's murdering bands , A babe , close-folded to his mother 's breast , Through Edom 's wilds he sought the sheltering West . 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 !