XII.

A broken gleam on wave and flower— A music that in utterance dies— O Poets, and O Men! what more Is all that Beauty which ye prize?

And ah! how oft Corruption works Through that brief Beauty's force or wile! How oft a gloom eternal lurks Beneath an evanescent smile!

But thou, serene and smiling light Of every grace redeemed from Sense, In thee all harmonies unite That charm a pure Intelligence.

Whatever teaches mind or heart To God by loveliest types to mount, Mary, is thine. Of each true Art The parent art thou, and the fount.

Those pictures, fair as moon or star, The ages dear to Faith brought forth, Formed but the illumined calendar Of her, that Church which knows thy worth.

Not less doth Nature teach through thee That mystery hid in hues and lines: Who loves thee not hath lost the key To all her sanctuaries and shrines.