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!