Henceforth thy shelter in thy woe was John's most humble dwelling;

The son of Zebedee replaced the Son Whom Heaven adored.

Naught else the Gospels tell us of thy life, in grace excelling;

It is the last they say of thee, sweet Mother of my Lord!

But oh! I think that silence means that, high in Heaven's Glory,

When time is past, and to their House thy children safe are come,

The Eternal Word, my Mother dear, Himself will tell thy story,

To charm our souls—thy children's souls—in our Eternal Home.

Soon I shall hear that harmony, that blissful, wondrous singing;

Soon, unto Heaven that waits for us, my soul shall swiftly fly.

O thou who cam'st to smile on me at dawn of life's beginning!

Come once again to smile on me . . . Mother! the night is nigh.

I fear no more thy majesty, so far removed above me,

For I have suffered sore with thee: now hear me, Mother mild!

Oh, let me tell thee face to face, dear Mary! how I love thee;

And say to thee for evermore: I am Thy little child.

May 1897.