Classic Poem

Whene'er I doubt if one so base as I
Shall share with heavenly choirs their joys serene,
This thought brings sweetest solace to my soul,
That thou, my Lady, art the Angels' Queen.

No seraph-form, to human weakness strange,
The regal sceptre holds in that high place;
But at the right hand of the King of kings
Thou sittest throned, a Daughter of our race.

Mother of God, creation's star-crowned Queen,
Heaven's mightiest spirits worship at thy feet;
Yet mid the splendour of thy pomp divine,
Our Mother and our Sister still we greet.

Shall I, then, fear to face the glittering ranks
That guard from step profane heaven's dazzling scene?

Their flame-tipped swords shall lower at the cry;
‘Angels of God, my Mother is your Queen.’