II 

   Immortal eloquence of mystic Art! 

   How strangely o'er oblivion and gray time, 

   That hand doth speak, as in the painter's prime 

   It uttered thus his own and Mary's heart, 

   At sight of it, what rich conjectures start, 

   Adown the years, what wistful Aves chime, 

   That wake the soul to rapture how sublime, 

   Wherewith we, too, must bear in Him our part! 

   For unto each to bring redemption's share, 

   Whereby adown the ages Christ is borne, 

   There comes the angel of the lilied rod; 

   And though our souls with anguish sore are torn, 

   We pray once more the world-o'ercoming prayer, 

   And then is born in us the Word of God. 

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