Then shakes the illuminated air With din of birds; the vales far down Grow phosphorescent here and there; Forth flash the turrets of the town; Along the sky thin vapours scud; Bright zephyrs curl the choral main; The wild ebullience of the blood Rings joy-bells in the heart and brain: Yet in that music discords mix; The unbalanced lights like meteors play; And, tired of splendours that perplex, The dazzled spirit sighs for May. {25} XXI. As children when, with heavy tread, Men sad of face, unseen before, Have borne away their mother dead-- So stand the nations thine no more. From room to room those children roam, Heart-stricken by the unwonted black: Their house no longer seems their home: They search; yet know not what they lack. Years pass: Self-Will and Passion strike Their roots more deeply day by day; Old servants weep; and "how unlike" Is all the tender neighbours say. And yet at moments, like a dream, A mother's image o'er them flits: Like her's their eyes a moment beam; The voice grows soft; the brow unknits. Such, Mary, are the realms once thine, That know no more thy golden reign. Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine! O make thine orphans thine again! {26} _Mariae Cliens._ XXII. A little longer on the earth That aged creature's eyes repose (Though half their light and all their mirth Are gone); and then for ever close. She thinks that something done long since Ill pleases God:--or why should He So long delay to take her hence Who waits His will so lovingly? Whene'er she hears the church-bells toll She lifts her head, though not her eyes, With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul, Counting her lip-worn rosaries. And many times the weight of years Falls from her in her waking dreams: A child her mother's voice she hears: To tend her father's steps she seems. {27} Once more she hears the whispering rains On flowers and paths her childhood trod; And of things present nought remains Save the abiding sense of God. Mary! make smooth her downward way! Not dearer to the young thou art Than her. Make glad her latest May; And hold her, dying, on thy heart. {28} _Fest. Visitationis._ XXIII. The hilly region crossed with haste, Its last dark ridge discerned no more, Bright as the bow that spans a waste She stood beside her Cousin's door; And spake:--that greeting came from God! Filled with the Spirit from on high Sublime the aged Mother stood, And cried aloud in prophecy,-- "Soon as thy voice had touched mine ears The child in childless age conceived Leaped up for joy! Throughout all years Blessed the woman who believed." Type of Electing Love! 'tis thine To speak God's greeting from the skies! Thy voice we hear: thy Babe divine At once, like John, we recognise.