When thou bidd'st us rest.
Virgin, type of holiness,
Mother, honour-crown'd,
Thou whom we as queen confess,
Godlike and renowned.
Round her, in gentle play,
Light clouds are stealing;
Penitents fair are they,
Who, humbly kneeling,
Sip in the ether sweet,
As they for grace entreat.
Thou, who art from passions free,
Kindly art inclin'd,
When the sons of frailty
Seek thee, meek in mind.
Borne by weakness' stream along,