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Who born of Eve, high mercy won,

To bear and nurse the Eternal Son.

O awful station, to no Seraph given,

On this side touching Sin, and on th' other Heaven!

Therefore, as kneeling day by day,
We to our Father duteous pray;
So unforbidden we may speak,
An Ave to Christ's Mother meek.
(As children with "good-morrow" come,
To Elders in some happy home,)
Inviting so the Saintly Host above,
With our unworthiness to pray in love.

To pray with us and gently bear,
Our falterings in the pure bright air;
But strive we pure and bright to be
In spirit,-else how vain of thee,
Our earnest dreamings, awful Bride!
Feel we the sword that pierc'd thy side;

Thy spotless lily flower, so clear of hue,

Shrinks from the breath impure, the tongue untrue.

THE ANNUNCIATION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY.

BY KEBLE.

O THOU who deign'st to sympathise
With all our frail and fleshly ties,
Maker, yet Brother dear,
Forgive the too presumptuous thought,
If, calming wayward grief, I sought
To gaze on Thee too near.

Yet sure 'twas not presumption, Lord,
'Twas thine own comfortable word

That made the lesson known.
Of all the dearest bonds we prove,
Thou countest sons' and mothers' love
Most sacred, most thine own.

When wandering here a little span,
Thou took'st on Thee to rescue man,
Thou hadst no earthly sire :
That wedded love we prize so dear,
As if our heaven and home were here;
It lit in Thee no fire.

On no sweet sister's faithful breast
Wouldst thou thine aching forehead rest,
On no kind brother lean:

But who, O perfect filial heart,
E'er did like Thee a true son's part,
Endearing, firm, serene?

Thou wept'st, meek maiden, mother mild, Thou wept'st upon thy sinless child,

Thy very

heart was riven:

And yet, what mourning matron here Would deem thy sorrows bought too dear By all on this side Heaven?

A son that never did amiss,

That never sham'd his mother's kiss,
Nor cross'd her fondest prayer:
Even from the tree he deign'd to bow
For her his agonised brow,

Her, his sole earthly care.

Ave Maria! blessed Maid!
Lily of Eden's fragrant shade,
Who can express the love
That nurtur'd thee so pure and sweet,
Making thy heart a shelter meet
For Jesus' holy Dove?

Ave Maria! Mother blest,
To whom, caressing and caress'd,
Clings the Eternal Child;
Favour'd beyond Archangels' dream
When first on thee with tenderest gleam
Thy new-born Saviour smil'd.

Ave Maria! Thou whose name
All but adoring love may claim,

Yet may we reach thy shrine;
For He, thy Son and Saviour, vows
To crown all lowly lofty brows

With love and joy like thine.

Bless'd is the womb that bare Him-bless'd
The bosom where his lips were press'd;
But rather bless'd are they
Who hear His word and keep it well,
The living homes where Christ shall dwell
And never pass away.

THE ANCIENT SAGES.

BY KEBLE.

WHEN Evening's silent foot-fall steals
Along the eastern sky,

And one by one to earth reveals

Those purer fires on high;

When one by one each human sound
Dies on the awful ear,

Then Nature's voice no more is drowned,
She speaks and we must hear.

Then pours she on the Christian heart,
That warning, still and deep,

At which high spirits of old would start
Even from their Pagan sleep:

Just guessing, through their murky blind,
Few, faint, and baffling sight
Streaks of a brighter heaven behind,
A cloudless depth of light.

Such thoughts, the wreck of Paradise,
Through many a dreary age,
Upbore whate'er of good and wise
Yet lived in bard or sage.

THE PILGRIM.

BY J. H. NEWMAN.

THERE stray'd awhile, amid the woods of Dart,
One who could love them, but who durst not love.
A vow had bound him, ne'er to give his heart
To streamlet bright, or soft secluded grove.
'Twas a hard humbling task onwards to move
His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot,
With unattach'd and lonely step to rove

O'er happy meads, which soon its print forgot ;-
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot.

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS.

By J. H. NEWMAN.

WHENE'ER across this sinful flesh of mine
I draw the Holy Sign,

All good thoughts stir within me, and renew
Their slumbering strength divine;

Till there springs up a courage high and true
To suffer and to do.

And who shall say, but hateful spirits around,
For their brief hour unbound,

Shudder to see, and wail their overthrow?
While on far heathen ground

Some lonely Saint hails the fresh odour, though
Its source he cannot know.

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD.

By J. H. NEWMAN.

LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home-
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

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