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,
    Empty and fleeting as April sunshine,
But for the grace that from holiness floweth,
    Grace, purest Mother, that always was thine.

Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,
    Thine was the will of thy Father above,
Thus thy life's fervor so strangely confounded
    Cold hearts that mocked at religion's pure love.

Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
    Bowed thee, unmurm'ring, beneath sorrow's rod;
Spirit of purity ever indwelling
    Made thee the Temple and Mother of God.

These are the gifts that thy children implore,
    With hearts warmly beating, and low bended knee;
Oh! ask of thy Son, whom we humbly adore,
    To grant us the prayers that we whisper to thee.

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 Maple Tree.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

Autumn Winds.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

A Modern Courtship.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

The Boy's Appeal.

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon, Simple Poetry

English

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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 w...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

The Purification.

Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high -
Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky -
Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil - from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.

Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and bright:
Agate and porphyry - precious gems - cedar and ivory white,
Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare,
With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.

But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high,
A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye; -
A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face -
With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.

Yet, no! those soft, slight arm...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

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
    With the tide of earthly joy,
And when in mine ears are sounding
    Strains of mirth without alloy;
When the whirl of giddy pleasure
    Leaves no thought or feeling free,
And I slight my heavenly treasure,
    Watchful Mother, pray for me!

When the soft voice of Temptation
    Lures my listening soul to sin,
And, with baleful fascination,
    Strives my vain, weak heart to win;
With the combat faint and weary,
    If I call...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Tribute To The Memory Of The Rev. Sister The Nativity, Foundress Of The Convent Of Villa Maria (Monklands.)

Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot,
Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot
    Since first, 'neath thy mortal old,
The spouses of Christ - working out God's will,
Meekly entered, their mission high to fill
    'Mid the "little ones" of His fold.

But grief's dark hour, that to all must come,
At length is on thee, and as a tomb,
    Hushed, joyless, art thou to-day,
For the lofty mind that thy councils led,
To womanly sweetness so closely wed,
    Has been called by death away.

"One 'mid a thousand!" no words could tell
The peerless worth that, like holy spell,
    Won all souls to saintly love;
And that knowledge rare of the human heart
That, with heavenly patience and gentle art,
    The coldest breast could move.

Oh! girlish natures...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

To the Virgin Mary

Mother of Him we call the Christ,
No halo round thy brows we paint,
Incense and prayer we offer not,
Nor mind to title thee as saint.

And yet, no womans name, of all
With honour from the ages sent,
Mary, is aureoled like thine,
With love and grief and glory blent!

Oh wisely was it that He chose,
Who the unwritten future reads,
To teach the after-world, through thee,
What cherishers Messiah needs.

Thou heardst the angels prophecy,
The tidings which the shepherds brought,
Anna and Simeon praising God,
And sawst that star the Wise Men sought!

Ah, who of us could bear, like thee,
With meekness, Gods triumphal light;
Then, still believing, with His Charge,
At midnight take an exiles flight?

Throughout the Son...

Mary Hannay Foott

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,...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon