Rejoice, O Mary! and be glad, Thou Church triumphant here below! He cometh, in meekest emblems clad; Himself he cometh to bestow! That body which thou gav'st, O Earth, He giveth back--that Flesh, that Blood; Born of the Altar's mystic birth; At once thy Worship and thy Food. He who of old on Calvary bled On all thine altars lies to-day, A bloodless Sacrifice, but dread; The Lamb in heaven adored for aye. His Godhead on the Cross He veiled; His Manhood here He veileth too: But Faith has eagle eyes unsealed; And Love to Him she loves is true. {113} "I will not leave you orphans. Lo! While lasts the world with you am I." Saviour! we see Thee not; but know, With burning hearts, that Thou art nigh! He comes! Blue Heaven, thine incense breathe O'er all the consecrated sod; And thou, O Earth, with flowers enwreathe The steps of thine advancing God! {114} _Corpus Christi._ XXV. What music swells on every gale? What heavenly Herald rideth past? Vale sings to vale, "He comes; all hail!" Sea sighs to sea, "He comes at last." The Earth bursts forth in choral song; Aloft her "Lauda Sion" soars; Her myrtle boughs at once are flung Before a thousand Minster doors. Far on the white processions wind Through wood and plain and street and court The kings and prelates pace behind The King of kings in seemly sort. The incense floats on Grecian air; Old Carmel echoes back the chant; In every breeze the torches flare That curls the waves of the Levant. On Ramah's plain--in Bethlehem's bound-- Is heard to-day a gladsome voice: "Rejoice," it cries, "the lost is found! With Mary's joy, O Earth, rejoice!" {115} XXVI. Pleasant the swarm about the bough; The meadow-whisper round the woods; And for their coolness pleasant now The murmur of the falling floods. Pleasant beneath the thorn to lie, And let a summer fancy loose; To hear the cuckoo's double cry; To make the noon-tide sloth's excuse. Panting, but pleased, the cattle stand Knee-deep in water-weed and sedge, And scarcely crop the greener band Of osiers round the river's edge. But hark! Far off the south wind sweeps The golden-foliaged groves among, Renewed or lulled, with rests and leaps-- Ah! how it makes the spirit long To drop its earthly weight, and drift Like yon white cloud, on pinions free, Beyond that mountain's purple rift, And o'er that scintillating sea! {116} XXVII. Sing on, wide winds, your anthems vast! The ear is richer than the eye: Upon the eye no shape can cast Such impress of Infinity. And thou, my soul, thy wings of might Put forth:--thou too, one day shalt soar, And, onward borne in heavenward flight, The starry universe explore;