See the Redeemer on His way
Himself to be redeemed to-day.
In humblest meekness see her lay
Before the shrine

Such offerings as poor matrons pay,
Want's lowly sign.

But soon the untimely vernal gleam
Must fade away like morning dream,

And ill winds blow, and cold mists stream

On flower and leaf:

So with the glad prophetic dream
Come tones of grief.

"The sword shall pierce thy very soul." As on some gay glad hour might toll

The funeral knell, or thunders roll

O'er summer night,

So did that word thy joy controul,

Thou Virgin bright!

Then, poor and orphan'd though I prove, Yet would I praise Thee, Lord, and love, And learn of Mary's spotless Dove,

With moanings meek,

And soft wing gliding high above,

Thy Face to seek.

6.

LENT.

"Sanctify a fast.. gather the children, and those that suck the breasts."

'Tis said, the immortal Powers on high Might envy Saints on earth, for they can die; They for their Lord may suffer loss;

Those but adore, these taste, the healing Cross.
So while in all beside, dear babe, we pine
For hope as pure as thine,

One gift we have, one token more than thou,

With choice of heart beneath the Saviour's yoke to bow.

No deep of joy to thee is lost

From Christmas, Easter, or bright Pentecost:

No memory-cloud in air, to dim

The unfolding heavens, or mar the Seraphs' hymn.

The gladsome days are thine: to us are sent
The wan soft gleams of Lent,

The kindly waters from the heavens above,

From earth to be exhal'd in dews of tearful love.

Our portion in Christ's awful year,

Not thine, is Lent: and yet He calls thee near.
Come, spotless one, He seems to say,

Come with thy pure white robe, and kneel to-day
Beside the fallen and defil'd, and learn

How keen the fires must burn

Of the dread Spirit, purging contrite hearts
With penitential pains, Truth in the inward parts.

Oft have we mark'd thy wistful eye Fix'd upon ours when evil news came nigh,

As who should say, "My dreams are bright, "Why should the cloud of woe on thee alight?" Then sweeter grew thy smile, thy soft caress

Would closer seem to press,

And for the woe, to thee yet unreveal'd,

Pure balm of kindly hope thou didst unknowing yield.

So be it now: the secret dark

Of wasting sin here in God's awful ark
In mercy may He keep from thee,
Yet be thou near, our penance-hour to see,
Our penance-hour to see, and deeply thrill
At sense of unknown ill.

Thou look'st an Angel: be thy presence found
Like a bright Angel's here, guarding the holy ground.

Oh much we need a loving spell,
To scare away the Powers unclean and fell,
Whom we too oft have tempted nigh,

To bind our burden, dim our upward eye.
Thou from the Font art fresh and undefiled.
O surely, happy child,

More than angelic power is where thou art,

More than angelic love, to melt the cold dry heart.