"Sine Labe originali Concepta."
XXII.
A soul-like sound, subdued yet strong,
A whispered music, mystery-rife,
A sound like Eden airs among
The branches of the Tree of Life—
At first no more than this; at last
The voice of every land and clime,
It swept o'er Earth, a clarion blast:
Earth heard, and shook with joy sublime.
Mary! thy triumph was her own.
In thee she saw her prime restored:
She saw ascend a spotless Throne
For Him, her Saviour, and her Lord.
The Church had spoken. She that dwells
Sun-clad with beatific light,
From Truth's unvanquished citadels,
From Sion's Apostolic height,
Had stretched her sceptred hands, and pressed
The seal of Faith, defined and known,
Upon that Truth till then confessed
By Love's instinctive sense alone.
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XXIII.
Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold,
Spring, sacred now from blasts and blights,
Lifts in a firm, untrembling hold
Her chalice of fulfilled delights.
Confirmed around her queenly lip
The smile late wavering, on she moves;
And seems through deepening tides to step
Of steadier joys and larger loves.
The stony Ash itself relents,
Into the blue embrace of May
Sinking, like old impenitents
Heart-touched at last; and, far away,
The long wave yearns along the coast
With sob suppressed, like that which thrills
(While o'er the altar mounts the Host)
Some chapel on the Irish hills.