Hast then no faith? Thine is the fault:—
What prophets, heroes, sages, saints,
Have loved, on thee still makes assault,
Thee with immortal things acquaints.
On life then seize:
Doubt is disease.
AVE MARIA BELLS
At dawn, the joyful choir of bells,
In consecrated citadels,
Flings on the sweet and drowsy air
A brief, melodious call to prayer;
For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly,
Conceived of the Spirit Holy,
As the Lord's angel did declare.
At noon, above the fretful street,
Our souls are lifted to repeat
The prayer, with low and wistful voice:
"According to thy word and choice,
Though sorrowful and heavy laden,
So be it done to thy Handmaiden";
Then all the sacred bells rejoice.
At eve with roses in the west,
The daylight's withering bequest,
Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright
The stars, the lilies of the night:
Of all the songs the years have sung us,
"The Word made Flesh had dwelt among us,"
Is still our ever-new delight.
