Classic Poem

Written for the " Lyra Innocentium. "

Saw ye the bright-eyed stately child,
With sunny locks so soft and wild,
How in a moment round the room
His keen eye glanced, then into gloom
Retired, as they who suffer wrong
When most assured they look and long?
Heard ye the quick appeal, half in dim fear,
In anger half, " My Mother is not here! "

Perchance some burthen'd heart was nigh,
To echo back that yearning cry
In deeper chords than may be known
To the dull outward ear alone
What if our English air be stirred
With sighs from saintly bosoms heard,
Or penitents, to leaning angels dear,
" Our own, our only Mother is not here. "

The murmurings of that boyish heart
They hush with many a fostering art.
Soon o'er the islands of the west
The weary sun will sink to rest;
The rose-tints fade, that gradual now
Are climbing Ben-y-veer's green brow,
Soon o'er the loch the twilight stars will peer,
Then shalt thou feel thy soul's desire is here.

Lightly they soothe the fair, fond boy,
Nor is there not a hope and joy
For spirits that half-orphan'd roam
Forlorn in their far island home.
Oft, as in penance lowly bowed,
Prayer — like a gentle evening cloud
Enfolds them, through the mist they seem to trace
By shadowy gleams a royal Mother's face.

The holy Church is at their side,
Not in her robes a glorious Bride: —
As sister named of Mercy mild
At midnight by a fever'd child
Might watch, and to the dim eye seem
A white stoled angel in a dream,
Such may the presence of the Spouse appear
To tender, trembling hearts, so faint, so dear.

The babe for that sweet vision's sake
Courts longer trance, afraid to wake;
And we for love would fain lie still,
Though in dim faith, if so He will.
And wills He not? Are not His signs
Around us oft as day declines?
Fails He to bless or home, or choral throng,
Where true hearts breathe His Mother's evensong?

Mother of God! O, not in vain
We learn'd of old thy lowly strain.
Fain in thy shadow would we rest,
And kneel with thee, and call thee blest;
With thee would " magnify the Lord, "
And if thou art not here adored,
Yet seek we, day by day, the love and fear
Which bring thee, with all saints, near and more near.

What glory thou above hast won,
By special grace of thy dear Son,
We see not yet, nor dare espy
Thy crowned form with open eye.
Rather beside the manger meek
Thee bending with veiled brow we seek,
Or where the angel in the thrice-great Name
Hail'd thee, and Jesus to thy bosom came.

Yearly since then with bitterer cry
Man hath assail'd the Throne on high,
And sin and hate more fiercely striven
To mar the league 'twixt earth and heaven.
But the dread tie, that pardoning hour,
Made fast in Mary'Sawful bower,
Hath mightier proved to bind than we to break.
None may that work undo, that Flesh unmake.

Thenceforth, whom thousand worlds adore,
He calls thee Mother evermore;
Angel nor Saint His face may see
Apart from what He took of thee.
How may we choose but name thy name
Echoing below their high acclaim
In holy Creeds? Since earthly song and prayer
Must keep faint time to the dread anthem there.

How, but in love on thine own days,
Thou blissful one, upon thee gaze?
Nay every day, each suppliant hour,
Whene'er we kneel in aisle or bower,
Thy glories we may greet unblamed,
Nor shun the lay by seraphs framed,
" Hail, Mary, full of grace! " O, welcome sweet
Which daily in all lands all saints repeat!

Fair greeting, with our matin vows
Paid duly to the enthroned Spouse,
His Church and Bride, here and on high,
Figured in her deep purity,
Who, born of Eve, high mercy won,
To bear and nurse the Eternal Son.
O, awful station, to no seraph given,
On this side touching sin, on the other heaven!

Therefore as kneeling day by day
We to our Father duteous pray,
So unforbidden may we speak
An Ave to Christ's Mother meek:
(As children with " good morrow " come
To elders in some happy home:)
Inviting so the saintly host above
With our unworthiness to pray in love.

To pray with us, and gently bear
Our falterings in the pure bright air.
But strive we pure and bright to be
In spirit, else how vain of thee
Our earnest dreamings, awful Bride!
Feel we the sword that pierced thy side
Thy spotless lily flower, so clear of hue,
Shrinks from the breath impure, the tongue untrue