V.

To that sad mount how eloquent a guide! Not Hybla’s blossoms could so fair beguile The wandering bees as thy entreating wile Faint souls to climb that seeming arid side. With strength thou lead’st from seraph-haunted cave Where Infinite Might with infinite loving smiled From frail, sweet lips of Holy Mary’s Child; Anon where pitying palm-trees shadow gave To ease the weary exile of their Lord; On through the humble toil of patient years— Till, mingling with the Magdalen our tears, Our heart’s poor vase of precious ointment poured— We stand, God’s Mother near, with woe beside The love-pierced feet of Jesus Crucified.