V.

"Wisdom hath built herself a House, And hewn her out her pillars seven." Her wine is mixed. Her guests are those Who share the harvest-home of heaven.

Who guards the gates? The flaming sword Of Penance. Every way it turns: But healing from on high is poured On each that fire seraphic burns.

The fruits upon her table piled Are gathered from the Tree of Life. Around are ranged the undefiled, And those that conquered in the strife.

Who tends the guests? Who smiles away Sad memories? bids misgiving cease? A crowned one countenanced like the day— The Mother of the Prince of Peace.