Sonnet XXII. The Dying Bed

Blest be the taper which hath power to shed
  Light on the features of that angel--face;
  Blest be the sadness of this solemn place;
  Blest be the circle round that parting bed,
  Whence many days all earthly hope hath fled;
  And the spirit which hath well--nigh reached by grace
  The rest of toil, the guerdon of its race,
  Faint, but with hidden manna gently fed.
  Oft have ye tended with unwearied care
  This couch of hers in anxious time of birth:
  Your meed of love, her mother--joys to share;
  Now hers the joy, and ye are left to mourn:
  For all your care can never keep on earth
  The glorious Child, that shall to--night be born.