Our Lady's Rosary

Dear Mother, I bring Thee roses
Because they are so sweet,
But lilies, my favorite flowers
I am placing at Thy feet.

Accept with each Hail Mary
A rose for Thy crown so bright;
Please don't forget the lilies,
The lilies so pure and white.

Let them be a bond of love
And understanding rare,
And send a blessing from above
In answer to my prayer.

Loneliness would be unknown
If more people came to Thee,
With their trials and sorrows
And said their Rosary.

With each Hail Mary, they would find
Their load much lighter grow,
And in humility, kiss the cross
In peace, would onward go.

Alice W. Sparks
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.

                                                                                                                                                                                               The Virgin of the Rosary
Murillo, 1618-1682

The Holy Rosary

Accept, mighty Maid, we beseech thee,
This prayer with its fragrance of flowers;
With one soul we seek thus to reach thee
And hail thee, God's Mother and ours.

Thy heart is made glad by our praying;
Thy bounty is generous and wise;
Thy hands are enriched for conveying
What God's tender Mercy supplies.

We kneel at thy shrines in the churches;
Oh, gently look down from above,
And welcome the heart that then searches
For worthy expressions of love.

Let others present precious caskets
Of gems, or heap altars with gold;
Slight prayer-beads shall serve us for baskets
To bring thee the garland they hold.

With violets lowly we fashion
This wreath, and with these are combined
Red roses--our faith in the Passion
With Chastity's lilies entwined.

Our minds, as the mysteries vary,
Are active; our hands play their part;
And always thy name, Holy Mary,
Oft-uttered, rejoices the heart.

Be with us; we trust thee to guide us
Through life, and when laboring breath
At the last seeks thine aid, be beside us
To help at the hour of our death.

Pope Leo XIII
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.

Autumn Sighs

In pensive mood I trod
My garden plot one day;
October's smile was weary so!
It's green was gloomy gray.
Where are the strains of summer gone?
Its sun the livelong day?
With sudden sadness I then thought
On how all human things decay.

Two months ago I'd seen
The thrilling joys of earth,
The roses blushing in their glee,
And swallows' mellow mirth.
Then something briny from eye
Fell with the faded leaves;
I wept at beauty gone to shreds,
At naked boughs of wailing trees.

I understood how we,
As mortals here below,
Will flourish for a moment, then
To tryst with death must go.
But when on summer's fruits I mused,
On ripened harvests fair,
On all the wealth from Heaven's store,
On blossomed beauties precious rare.

I knew that for a cause,
A purpose grandly good,
The Lord had minted summer days;
And thus I understood
That we must lead a noble life
With inspiration filled,
To give the living, when we die,
The aims with which our spirit thrilled!

That I, a mortal man
With life divine in me,
Must purify that priceless soul
With God's sweet sanctity;
Must leave to men the heritage
Of virtue and of love,
And help to make a better world,
A bit like Heaven above.

The fight for sanctity,
For virtue's steep-set path,
And ways of love and gentleness
In place of vice and wrath,
Dear Lord, all these You will from me.
I know You give the grace;
I trust You faithfully,
But tell me how my steps to trace.

The breeze was whistling loud,
In havoc with the trees;
And God, who gave the breeze its breath,
And God, who made the leaves,
Was telling of the Masterpiece
Arisen from His hand,
"To Mary, Mother Mine and yours,
Explain, she sure will understand!"

With Mary for my Love,
My Model and my Queen,
Since that October day, she knows
How happy I have been!
I trust in her, and make her loved,
And thus my life's short day,
Will, as a fruitful manna, help
The souls that come, to keep the Way!

Robert, Cyril.
Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.

 
October's Queen

When the grass was springing,
When the fields were gay,
When the winds were singing
All the happy day,
Then we gathered 'round thee,
Mother dear, and crown'd thee
With the brightest blossoms
Of the meads of May.

Now that the winds are grieving
Over the summer dead,
All the woodlands reaving
Of their riches red,
Once again we're kneeling,
To thy heart appealing,
Twining other garlands
For thy holy head.

Rosy crowns we wrought thee
In thy month of flow'rs,
Rosy crowns we brought thee
From the Maytime bow'rs.
But when roses fail us,
Rosaries avail us;
'Tis with these we crown thee
In October hours.

Denis A. McCarthy
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.

Our Lady of the Rosary

Through thee, to us, our Savior came,
Through thee, to Him, we fain would go.
Our lives are marred by wrong and shame,
Yet, confidence in thee we know.
The friendship thou dost give to all
Who love thy name, shall ever be
Assurance thou wilt hear our call,
Sweet Lady of the Rosary!

Thou art our Strength upon the way,
Our Morning Star, to cheer and guide;
Our Beacon Light to show the day,
And lead us to the Savior's Side;
A Comforter in ev'ry pain
We find, O Mother blest, in thee,
And seek we, never, thee in vain,
Fair Lady of the Rosary!

Thy praises, Mary, we would sing,
And all our faculties employ,
That unto thee our hearts might bring
A glory-crown of love and joy.
Bless thou each humble effort made
In thy regard, and grant that we
May by thy influence be swayed,
Our Lady of the Rosary!

Amadeus
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.

The Rosary

The gladness of thy Motherhood,
The anguish of thy suffering,
The glory now that crowns thy brow,
O Virgin-Mother, we would sing.

Hail, blessed Mother, full of joy
In thy consent, thy visit too;
Joy in the birth of Christ on earth,
Joy in Him lost and found anew.

Hail, sorrowing in His agony
The blows, the thorns that pierced His brow;
The heavy wood, the shameful Rood,
Yea! Queen and chief of martyrs thou.

Hail, in the triumph of thy Son,
The quickening flames of Pentecost;
Shining a Queen in light serene,
When all the world is tempest-tost.

O come, ye nations, roses bring,
Culled from these mysteries divine,
And for the Mother of your King
With loving hands your chaplets twine.

We lay our homage at Thy feet,
Lord Jesus, Thou the Virgin's Son,
With the Father and with the Paraclete,
Reigning while endless ages run.

Augustine Ricchini
David Oswald Hunter-Blair, translator.
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.

 

Fondly my thoughts to the old home are stealing
At eve when the lingering shadows appear,
For now Erin's children are fervently kneeling,
Telling their Paters and Aves so dear.

Tho' sad be the story their rosary unchaining,
Musical cadence their murmuring tone,
Heart-broken creatures, yet never complaining,
Moaning God's sorrow--forgetting their own.

O Mother, give ear to their passionate pleading,
"No one," they tell us, "besought thee in vain!"
Queen of the Rosary, Erin is bleeding
War and dissension have torn her atwain!

From mountain and valley, O hear the Gael sighing,
Mingling his sorrow with thy night of woe;
Ave Maria ! On thee we're relying
Peace to our own little island bestow.

Liam O'Moore
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.

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