To Thee, in this aërial cleft,
As to a common centre, tend
All sufferers that no more rely[506]
On mortal succour—all who sigh[507]
And pine,[508] of human hope bereft,
Nor wish for earthly friend.
And hence, O Virgin Mother mild!
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,[HU]
Not only from the dreary strife
Of Winter, but the storms of life,