VII.
Not for herself does Mary hold
Among the saints that queenly throne,
Her seat predestined from of old;
But for the brethren of her Son.
Pure thoughts that make to God their quest,
With her find footing o'er the clouds;
Like those sea-crossing birds that rest
A moment on the sighing shrouds.
In her our hearts, no longer nursed
On dust, for spiritual beauty yearn;
From her our instincts, as at first,
An upward gravitation learn.
Her distance makes her not remote:
For in true love's supernal sphere
No more round self the affections float—
More near to God, to man more near.
In her, the weary warfare past,
The port attained, the exile o'er,
We see the Church's barque at last
Close-anchored on the eternal shore!