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_Mariae Cliens._
XXII.
A little longer on the earth That aged creature's eyes repose (Though half their light and all their mirth Are gone); and then for ever close.
She thinks that something done long since Ill pleases G.o.d:--or why should He So long delay to take her hence Who waits His will so lovingly?
Whene'er she hears the church-bells toll She lifts her head, though not her eyes, With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul, Counting her lip-worn rosaries.
And many times the weight of years Falls from her in her waking dreams: A child her mother's voice she hears: To tend her father's steps she seems.
{27}
Once more she hears the whispering rains On flowers and paths her childhood trod; And of things present nought remains Save the abiding sense of G.o.d.
Mary! make smooth her downward way!
Not dearer to the young thou art Than her. Make glad her latest May; And hold her, dying, on thy heart.
{28}
_Fest. Visitationis._
XXIII.
The hilly region crossed with haste, Its last dark ridge discerned no more, Bright as the bow that spans a waste She stood beside her Cousin's door;
And spake:--that greeting came from G.o.d!
Filled with the Spirit from on high Sublime the aged Mother stood, And cried aloud in prophecy,--
"Soon as thy voice had touched mine ears The child in childless age conceived Leaped up for joy! Throughout all years Blessed the woman who believed."
Type of Electing Love! 'tis thine To speak G.o.d's greeting from the skies!
Thy voice we hear: thy Babe divine At once, like John, we recognise.
Within our hearts the second birth Exults, though blind as yet and dumb.
The child of Grace his hands puts forth, And prophesies of things to come.
{29}
XXIV.
Not yet, not yet! the Season sings Not of fruition yet, but hope; Still holds aloft, like balanced wings, Her scales, and lets not either drop.
The white ash, last year's skeleton, Still glares, uncheered by leaf or shoot, 'Gainst azure heavens, and joy hath none In that fresh violet at her foot.
Yet Nature's virginal suspense Is not forgetfulness nor sloth: Where'er we wander, soul and sense Discern a blindly working growth.
Her throne once more the daisy takes, That white star of our dusky earth; And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakes Her pa.s.sion of seraphic mirth.
Twixt barren hills and clear cold skies She weaves, ascending high and higher, Songs florid as those traceries Which took, of old, their name from fire.
Sing! thou that need'st no ardent clime To sun the sweetness from thy breast; And teach us those delights sublime Wherein ascetic spirits rest!
{30}
_Fest Nativitatis B.V.M._
XXV.
When thou wert born the murmuring world Boiled on, nor dreamed of things to be, From joy to sorrow madly whirled;-- Despair disguised in revelry.
A princess thou of David's line; The mother of the Prince of Peace; That hour no royal pomps were thine: The earth alone her boon increase.
Before thee poured. September rolled Down all the vine-clad Syrian slopes Her breadths of purple and of gold; And birds sang loud from olive tops.
Perhaps old foes, they knew not why, Relented. From a fount long sealed Tears rose, perhaps, to Pity's eye: Love-harvests crowned the barren field.
{31}
The respirations of the year.
At least, grew soft. O'er valleys wide Pine-roughened crags again shone clear; And the great Temple, far descried,
To watchers, watching long in vain, To patriots grey, in bondage nursed, Flashed back their hope--"The Second Fane In glory shall surpa.s.s the First!"
{32}
XXVI.
The moon, ascending o'er a ma.s.s Of tangled yew and sable pine, What sees she in yon watery gla.s.s?
A tearful countenance divine.
Far down, the winding hills between, A sea of vapour bends for miles, Unmoving. Here and there, dim-seen, The knolls above it rise like isles.
