ail, Mary, honored of the race!
Light of the Home, its fount of grace,
Is woman—sister, wife, and mother—
Circling a towered and a heavenly place.
She sorrowed oft for Love's dear sake,
She did the alabaster break;
Like Him she knows of pain and anguish,
And doth for life of death's cup partake.
Hope of the race! since from Home's throne
(Sweet Love's own gift, and His alone,)
She giveth laws to coming ages—
Builder from cope to foundation stone!
rail Lucia of a mutual love!
Fair little wingèd cooing dove,
Thou'st fluttered down from thy far dovecote,
Awhile to nestle in earth's sweet grove.
Would it were sweeter, child, for thee—
Sweet as the silver-breaking sea
(When Indian summer broods upon it)
Doth flute and fife to the golden tree!
Thine angel listens for thy breath
Whene'er he hears the wings of death,
Looks in the Father's face and prayeth—
"For earth's sake spare her," he softly saith.