| My Maker to thy trust |
| Consign'd my soul, what time He framed |
| The infant child of dust. |
No beating heart in holy prayer, |
| No faith, inform'd aright, |
| Gave me to Joseph's tutelage, |
| Or Michael's conquering might. |
Nor patron Saint, nor Mary's love, |
| The dearest and the best, |
| Has known my being, as thou hast known, |
| And blest, as thou hast blest. {301} |
Thou wast my sponsor at the font; |
| And thou, each budding year, |
| Didst whisper elements of truth |
| Into my childish ear. |
And when, ere boyhood yet was gone, |
| My rebel spirit fell, |
| Ah! thou didst see, and shudder too, |
| Yet bear each deed of Hell. |
And then in turn, when judgments came, |
| And scared me back again, |
| Thy quick soft breath was near to soothe |
| And hallow every pain. |
Oh! who of all thy toils and cares |
| Can tell the tale complete, |
| To place me under Mary's smile, |
| And Peter's royal feet! |
And thou wilt hang about my bed, |
| When life is ebbing low; |
| Of doubt, impatience, and of gloom, |
| The jealous sleepless foe. {302} |
Mine, when I stand before the Judge; |
| And mine, if spared to stay |
| Within the golden furnace, till |
| My sin is burn'd away. |
And mine, O Brother of my soul, |
| When my release shall come; |
| Thy gentle arms shall lift me then, |
| Thy wings shall waft me home. |
The Oratory.
1853. |