XXII.

A little longer on the earth

That aged creature's eyes repose

( Though half their light and all their mirth

Are gone ); and then for ever close.

She thinks that something done long since

Ill pleases God:— or why should He

So long delay to take her hence

Who waits His will so lovingly?

Whene'er she hears the church-bells toll

She lifts her head, though not her eyes,

With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul,

Counting her lip-worn rosaries.

And many times the weight of years

Falls from her in her waking dreams:

A child her mother's voice she hears:

To tend her father's steps she seems.

Once more she hears the whispering rains

On flowers and paths her childhood trod;

And of things present nought remains

Save the abiding sense of God.

Mary! make smooth her downward way!

Not dearer to the young thou art

Than her. Make glad her latest May;

And hold her, dying, on thy heart.