MATER DOLOROSA.

The nuns sing, “ora pro nobis,”

The lancets glitter above;

And the beautiful Virgin whose robe is

Woven of infinite love,

Infinite love and sorrow,

Prays for them there on high;—

Who has most need of her prayers,— to-morrow

Shall tell them,— they or I?

Up in the hills together

We loved, where the world seemed true;

Our world of the whin and heather,

Our skies of a nearer blue,

A blue from which one borrows

A faith that helps one die —

O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows,

None needs such more than I!

We lived, we loved unwedded —

Love's sin and its shame that slays!—

No ill of the year we dreaded,

No day of its coming days;

Its coming days, their many

Trials by morn and night,

And I know no land, not any,

Where love's lilies grow so white!

Was he false to me, my Mother!

Or I to him, my God!—

Who gave thee right, O brother!

To take God's right and rod!

God's rod of avenging morrows,

And the life here in my side!

O Mother, God's Mother of Sorrows,

For both I would have died!

By the wall of the Chantry kneeling,

I pray and the organ rings,

“Gloria! gloria!” pealing,

“Sancta Maria” sings!

They will find us dead to-morrow

By the wall of their nunnery,

O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrow!

His unborn babe and me.