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!