Mary! I want a lyre with other strings;
Such aid from Heaven, as some have feigned they drew!
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new,
And undebased by praise of meaner things!
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth, with honor due,
In verse as musical, as thou art true,
Verse, that immortalizes whom it sings!
But thou hast little need: There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look;
A chronicle of actions just and bright!
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
Such aid from Heaven, as some have feigned they drew!
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new,
And undebased by praise of meaner things!
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth, with honor due,
In verse as musical, as thou art true,
Verse, that immortalizes whom it sings!
But thou hast little need: There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look;
A chronicle of actions just and bright!
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.