XXI.

As children when, with heavy tread,
Men sad of face, unseen before,
Have borne away their mother dead-
So stand the nations thine no more.

From room to room those children roam,
Heart-stricken by the unwonted black :
Their house no longer seems their home:

They search; yet know not what they lack.

Years pass: Self-Will and Passion strike
Their roots more deeply day by day;
Old servants weep; and "how unlike "
Is all the tender neighbours say.

And yet at moments, like a dream,

A mother's image o'er them flits: Like her's their eyes a moment beam;

The voice grows soft; the brow unknits.

Such, Mary, are the realms once thine,
That know no more thy golden reign.
Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine!
O make thine orphans thine again!

Maria 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 God:-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.

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 God.

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.

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 God! 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 God'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.

XXIV.

Nor 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 passion 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!