The Poetical Works | Page 7

In the hour of grief and sorrow,
When my heart is full of care,

Seeking sadly hope to borrow
From heaven's promises and prayer;

When around me roll the waters
Of affliction's stormy sea,
Mary,
gentle Queen of Mercy,
In that hour, oh! pray for me!
When life's pulses high are bounding
With the tide of earthly joy,

And when in mine ears are sounding
Strains of mirth without alloy;

When the whirl of giddy pleasure
Leaves no thought or feeling free,

And I slight my heavenly treasure,
Watchful Mother, pray for me!
When the soft voice of Temptation
Lures my listening soul to sin,

And, with baleful fascination,
Strives my vain, weak heart to win;

With the combat faint and weary,
If I call not then on thee--
In that
time of peril dreary,
Tender Mother, pray for me!
If, in some unguarded hour
Of dark passion or of pride,
Evil
thoughts, with serpent power
To my inmost bosom glide--
Ah!
while I from bonds unholy,
Vainly seek myself to free--
Mary, pure
and meek and lowly,
Pray, oh! Mary, pray for me!
When with Heaven high communing
In the solemn hour of prayer--

To its strains my soul attuning,
I forget all worldly care;
When
earth's voices for a season
My vex'd spirit have left free--
Still, dear
Mother, near me hover!

Still, sweet Mary, pray for me!
And in that supremest hour,
When life's end is drawing nigh--

When earth's scenes and pomps and power
Fade before my

tear-dimmed eye--
When I on the shore am lying
Of eternity's wide
sea--
Then, O Refuge of the dying,
Tender Mother, pray for me!
THE MAGDALEN AT THE MADONNA'S SHRINE.
O Madonna, pure and holy,
From sin's dark stain ever free,
Refuge
of the sinner lowly,
I come--I come to thee!
Now with wreaths of
sinful pleasure
Yet my tresses twined among;
From the dance's
giddy measure,
From the idle jest and song.
See! I tear away the flowers
From my perfumed golden hair,

Closely tended in past hours
With such jealous, sinful care;
Never
more for me they blossom,
Not for me those jewels vain:
On my
arms or brow or bosom,
They shall never shine again.
Dost thou wonder at my daring
Thus to seek thy sacred shrine,

When the sinner's lot despairing,
Wretched--hopeless--should be
mine?
To the instincts high of woman
Most unfaithful and untrue;

Yet Madonna, hope inspires me,
For thou wast a woman too.
Evil promptings, dark-despairing,
Whisper: "Leave this sacred spot;

Back to sinful joys, repairing,
In them live and struggle not!"
But
a bright hope tells that heaven
May by me e'en yet be won,
That I
yet may be forgiven,
Mary, by thy spotless Son!
Yes! I look on thy mild features,
Full of dove-like, tender love--

Once the humblest of God's creatures,
Now with Him enthroned
above!
Every trait angelic breathing
Sweetest promises of peace;

And the smile thy soft lips wreathing
Tell me that my griefs shall
cease.
Soft the evening shadows gather
But no longer shall I wait,

I will
rise and seek the Father,
For it is not yet too late;
And when earthly
cares oppress me,
When life's paths my bruised feet pain;
Hither
shall I come to rest me,
And new strength and courage gain!

THE VESPER HOUR.
Soft and holy Vesper Hour--
Precursor of the night--
How I love
thy soothing power,
The hush, the fading light;
Raising those vain
thoughts of ours
To higher, holier things--
Mingling gleams from
Eden's bowers
With earth's imaginings!
How thrilling in some grand old fane
To hear the Vesper prayer

Rise, with the organ's solemn strain,
On incense-laden air;
While
the last dying smiles of day
Athwart the stained glass pour--

Flooding with red and golden ray
The shrine and chancel floor.
Who, at such moment, has not felt
Those yearnings, vague, yet sweet,

For Heaven's joys at last to melt,
Into fruition meet;
And wished,
as with rapt soul he viewed
That glorious Home above,
That earth's
vain thoughts would ne'er intrude
On visions of God's love?
To this calm hour belongs a sway
The bright day cannot wield--

Sweet as the evening star's first ray,
Transforming wood and field;

Soft'ing gay flowers else too bright
And silvering hill and dell;
And
clothing earth in that mild light
The sad heart loves so well.
THE PARTING SOUL AND HER GUARDIAN ANGEL.
(Written during sickness).
Soul--
Oh! say must I leave this world of light
With its sparkling
streams and sunshine bright,
Its budding flowers, its glorious sky?

Vain 'tis to ask me--I cannot die!
Angel--
But, sister, list! in the realms above,
That happy home of
eternal love,
Are flowers more fair, and skies more clear
Than those
thou dost cling to so fondly here.
Soul--
Ah! yes, but to reach that home of light

I must pass through

the fearful vale of night;
And my soul with alarm doth shuddering
cry--
O angel, I tell thee, I dare not die!
Angel--
Ah! mortal beloved, in that path untried
Will I be, as ever,
still at thy side,
Through gloom to guide till, death's shadows passed,

Thou nearest, unharmed, God's throne at last.
Soul--
Alas! too many close ties of love
Around my wavering heart
are wove!
Fond, tender voices, press me to stay--
Think'st thou
from them I would pass away?
Daily my mother, with anguish wild,

Bends o'er the couch of her dying child,
And one, nearer still, with
silent tears,
Betrays his anguish, his gloomy fears--
Yes, even now,
while to thee I speak,
Are hot drops falling upon my cheek;
Think
you I'd break