Mystical Rose, Pray For Us!

O aptly named, Illustrious One!
    Thou art that flower fair
That filled this vast and changeful world
    With mystic perfume rare -
Shedding on all the balmy breath
    Of countless virtues high,
Rising like fragrant odours rich,
    To God's far, beauteous sky.

Mystical Rose! O aptly named!
    For, as 'mid brightest flowers
The lovely Rose unquestioned reigns
    The Queen of Nature's bowers,
So 'mid the daughters fair of Eve
    Art thou the peerless One!
The chosen handmaid of the Lord!
    The Mother of His Son!

Yes, He endowed thee with all gifts
    Which could thy beauty grace;
And ne'er did sin, e'en for one hour,
    Thy spotless soul deface,
For from the first thou had'st the power
    God's fav'ring love to win;
It was His will that thou should'st be
    Conceived devoid of sin.

Oh, Mother dear, obtain for us
    That we from evil flee;
Throughout this, fleeting life's career
    Mayst thou our model be!
Seek we to imitate the gifts
    That thy pure soul adorn -
Sweet flower of beauty and of grace!
    Fair Rose without a thorn!

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon was a Canadian poet and novelist known for her contributions to Canadian literature in the 19th century. She wrote several novels and numerous poems, often focusing on themes of love, identity, and cultural conflicts. Leprohon's work is notable for its exploration of Canadian identity and bilingual heritage as she wrote in both English and French.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

The Purification.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

To My First Born.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

Monument To Irish Emigrants.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

St. Francis Of Borgia By The Coffin Of Queen Isabel.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

English

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Virgin Of Bethlehem.

Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One!
    Star of the pilgrim on life's stormy sea!
Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly one,
    List to the prayers that we offer to thee!

Not for the joys that this false earth bestoweth,
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Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,
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Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
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Mater Christianorum, Ora Pro Nobis!

In the hour of grief and sorrow,
    When my heart is full of care,
Seeking sadly hope to borrow
    From heaven's promises and prayer;
When around me roll the waters
    Of affliction's stormy sea,
Mary, gentle Queen of Mercy,
    In that hour, oh! pray for me!

When life's pulses high are bounding
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And when in mine ears are sounding
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When the soft voice of Temptation
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The Magdalen At The Madonna's Shrine.

O Madonna, pure and holy,
    From sin's dark stain ever free,
Refuge of the sinner lowly,
    I come - I come to thee!
Now with wreaths of sinful pleasure
    Yet my tresses twined among;
From the dance's giddy measure,
    From the idle jest and song.

See! I tear away the flowers
    From my perfumed golden hair,
Closely tended in past hours
    With such jealous, sinful care;
Never more for me they blossom,
    Not for me those jewels vain:
On my arms or brow or bosom,
    They shall never shine again.

Dost thou wonder at my daring
    Thus to seek thy sacred shrine,
When the sinner's lot despairing,
    Wretched - hopeless - should be mine?
To the instincts high of woman
    Most unfaithful and untrue;
Yet Madonna,...

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The Shepherdess Of The Arno.

'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale
Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale,
Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play
As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.

She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright,
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Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes;
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Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true,
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And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell,
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The Young Novice.

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around,
But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;
Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,
Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure - as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek
Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek,
While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,
And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,
The silver cross - oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:
They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,
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The Loveliest Face And The Wild Rose

The loveliest face! I turned to her
Shut in 'mid savage rocks and trees; -
'Twas in the May-time of the year,
And our two hearts were filled with ease -
And pointed where a wild-rose grew,
Suddenly fair in that grim place:
"We should know all, if we but knew
Whence came this flower, and whence - this face."

The loveliest face!    My thoughts went around:
"Strange sister of this little rose,
So softly 'scaped from underground;
O tell me if your beauty knows,
Being itself so fair a thing,
How came this lovely thing so fair,
How came it to such blossoming,
Leaning so strangely from the air?

"The wonder of its being born,
So lone and lovely - even as you -
Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn,
And delicately sad with dew;
How came it ...

Richard Le Gallienne