Is there, in bowers of endless spring,
  One known from all the seraph band
  By softer voice, by smile and wing
  More exquisitely bland!
  Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air
Is fragrant with a mother's first and fondest prayer.

  Only let Heaven her fire impart,
  No richer incense breathes on earth:
  "A spouse with all a daughter's heart,"
  Fresh from the perilous birth,
  To the great Father lifts her pale glad eye,
Like a reviving flower when storms are hushed on high.

  Oh, what a treasure of sweet thought
  Is here! what hope and joy and love
  All in one tender bosom brought,
  For the all-gracious Dove
  To brood o'er silently, and form for Heaven
Each passionate wish and dream to dear affection given.

  Her fluttering heart, too keenly blest,
  Would sicken, but she leans on Thee,
  Sees Thee by faith on Mary's breast,
  And breathes serene and free.
  Slight tremblings only of her veil declare
Soft answers duly whispered to each soothing prayer.

  We are too weak, when Thou dost bless,
  To bear the joy—help, Virgin-born!
  By Thine own mother's first caress,
  That waked Thy natal morn!
  Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made
A Heaven on earth around this couch where Thou wast laid.

  The prayers are o'er: why slumberest thou so long,
  Thou voice of sacred song?
  Why swell'st thou not, like breeze from mountain cave,
  High o'er the echoing nave,
  This