To Mrs. de Paravicini, III

Since, O white City! I may be, I, a white citizen of thee: I claim no saint's high grace Mine, but a servant's place.

I think not vainly to become A king, who knew no martyrdom: Nor crown, nor palm, I crave; But to be Christ's poor slave.

Angels! before the Lord of lords, Shine forth, His spiritual swords! Flash round the King of kings The snow of your white wings!

But I, too fresh from the white fire, Humble the dreams of all desire: Nay! let me shine afar, Who am Heaven's faintest star.

Upon the eternal borders let My still too fearful soul be set: There wait the Will of God, A loving period.

Closer I dare not come, nor see The Face of Him, Who died for me. Child! thou shalt dwell apart: But in My Sacred Heart.