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Lowliest of women, and most glorified! In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, A brightness round thee grew—and by thy side Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, Solemn, yet breathing gladness.—From her throne A queen had risen with more imperial eye, A stately prophetess of victory From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone, For such high tidings as to thee were brought, Chosen of Heaven! that hour:—but thou, O thou! E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught, Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word, And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.