The Nightingale

As the mute nightingale in closest groves Lies hid at noon, but when day’s piercing eye Is locked in night, with full heart beating high Poureth her plain-song o’er the light she loves; So, Virgin Ever-pure and Ever-blest, Moon of religion, from whose radiant face Reflected streams the light of heavenly grace On broken hearts, by contrite thoughts oppressed: So, Mary, they who justly feel the weight Of Heaven’s offended Majesty, implore Thy reconciling aid with suppliant knee: Of sinful man, O sinless Advocate, To thee they turn, nor Him they less adore; ’Tis still His light they love, less dreadful seen in thee.