That infant touch none else could feel Vibrates like light through all her sense: Far off she hears his cry: her zeal With lions fights in his defence. Unmarked his youth goes by: his hair Still smooths she down, still strokes apart: The first white thread that meets her there Glides, like a dagger, through her heart. Men praise him: on her matron cheek There dawns once more a maiden red. Of war, of battle-fields they speak: She sees once more his father dead. In sickness--half in sleep--she hears His foot, ere yet that foot is nigh: Wakes with a smile; and scarcely fears, If he but clasp her hand, to die. {21} _Mater Filii._ XVII. Others, the hours of youth gone by, A mother's hearth and home forsake; And, with the need, the filial tie Relaxes, though it does not break. But Thou wert born to be a Son. God's Son in heaven, Thy will was this, To pass the chain of Sonship on, And bind in one whatever is. Thou cam'st the _Son_ of Man to be, That so Thy brethren too might bear Adoptive Sonship, and with Thee Thy Sire's eternal kingdom share. Transcendently the Son Thou art: In this mysterious bond entwine, As in a single, two-celled heart, Thy natures, human and divine. {22} _Mater Divinae Gratiae._ XVIII. "They have no wine." The tender guest Was grieved their feast should lack for aught. He seemed to slight her mute request: Not less the grace she wished He wrought. O great in Love! O full of Grace! That winds in thee, a river broad, From Christ, with heaven-reflecting face, Gladdening the City of thy God:-- Be this thy gift: that man henceforth No more should creep through life content (Draining the springs impure of earth) With life's material element. Let sacraments to sense succeed: Let nought be winning, nought be good Which fails of Him to speak, and bleed Once more with His all-cleansing blood! {23} _Mater Divinae Gratiae._ XIX. The gifts a mother showers each day Upon her softly-clamorous brood: The gifts they value but for play,-- The graver gifts of clothes and food,-- Whence come they but from him who sows With harder hand, and reaps, the soil; The merit of his labouring brows, The guerdon of his manly toil? From Him the Grace: through her it stands Adjusted, meted, and applied; And ever, passing through her hands, Enriched it seems, and beautified. Love's mirror doubles Love's caress: Love's echo to Love's voice is true:-- Their Sire the children love not less Because they clasp a Mother too. {24} XX. When April's sudden sunset cold Through boughs half-clothed with watery sheen Bursts on the high, new-cowslipped wold, And bathes a world half gold half green,