To the Holy Virgin

Mother of Him who made us! first of mothers!
Who heard'st the glorious angel bid thee ' Hail!'
Mother of Him who call'd mankind His brothers,
Although His dying rent the Temple's veil,
And utter darkness told He was divine;
A few brief scriptures show us more of thee,
Than all these after-times of pageantry,
The marble statue, and the jewell'd shrine;
The passionate acclaim of many lands
Has drown'd thine own sweet voice, that ever spake
Of the Lord's handmaid; now they bid thee take
His place, and wrong thee with adoring hands;
But oh! we know thee best, when seen alone,
Far in the Past, with Jesus and with John!