Cardinal Newman's poems on Mary

The Pilgrim Queen
{281} (A Song.)
THERE sat a Lady
all on the ground,
Rays of the morning
circled her round,
Save thee, and hail to thee,
Gracious and Fair,
In the chill twilight
what wouldst thou there?
"Here I sit desolate,"
sweetly said she,
"Though I'm a queen,
and my name is Marie:
Robbers have rifled
my garden and store,
Foes they have stolen
my heir from my bower. {282}
"They said they could keep Him
far better than I,
In a palace all His,
planted deep and raised high.
'Twas a palace of ice,
hard and cold as were they,
And when summer came,
it all melted away.
"Next would they barter Him,
Him the Supreme,
For the spice of the desert,
and gold of the stream;
And me they bid wander
in weeds and alone,
In this green merry land
which once was my own."
I look'd on that Lady,
and out from her eyes
Came the deep glowing blue
of Italy's skies; {283}
And she raised up her head
and she smiled, as a Queen
On the day of her crowning,
so bland and serene.
"A moment," she said,
"and the dead shall revive;
The giants are failing,
the Saints are alive;
I am coming to rescue
my home and my reign,
And Peter and Philip
are close in my train."
The Oratory. 1849.					The Queen of Seasons {287} (A Song for an inclement May.) ALL is divine               which the Highest has made, Through the days that He wrought,               till the day when He stay'd; Above and below,               within and around, From the centre of space,               to its uttermost bound. In beauty surpassing               the Universe smiled, On the morn of its birth,               like an innocent child, {288} Or like the rich bloom               of some delicate flower; And the Father rejoiced               in the work of His power. Yet worlds brighter still,               and a brighter than those, And a brighter again,               He had made, had He chose; And you never could name               that conceivable best, To exhaust the resources               the Maker possess'd. But I know of one work               of his Infinite Hand, Which special and singular               ever must stand; So perfect, so pure,               and of gifts such a store, That even Omnipotence               ne'er shall do more. {289} The freshness of May,               and the sweetness of June, And the fire of July               in its passionate noon, Munificent August,               September serene, Are together no match               for my glorious Queen. O Mary, all months               and all days are thine own, In thee lasts their joyousness,               when they are gone; And we give to thee May,               not because it is best, But because it comes first,               and is pledge of the rest. The Oratory. 1850. The Month of Mary {284} (A Song.) GREEN are the leaves, and sweet the flowers,     And rich the hues of May; We see them in the gardens round,     And market-paniers gay: And e'en among our streets, and lanes,     And alleys, we descry, By fitful gleams, the fair sunshine,     The blue transparent sky.                         Chorus. O Mother maid, be thou our aid,     Now in the opening year; Lest sights of earth to sin give birth,     And bring the tempter near. {285} Green is the grass, but wait awhile,     'Twill grow, and then will wither; The flowrets, brightly as they smile,     Shall perish altogether: The merry sun, you sure would say,     It ne'er could set in gloom; But earth's best joys have all an end,     And sin, a heavy doom.                         Chorus. But Mother maid, thou dost not fade;     With stars above thy brow, And the pale moon beneath thy feet,     For ever throned art thou. The green green grass, the glittering grove,     The heaven's majestic dome, They image forth a tenderer bower,     A more refulgent home; They tell us of that Paradise     Of everlasting rest, And that high Tree, all flowers and fruit,     The sweetest, yet the best.{286} Chorus. O Mary, pure and beautiful,     Thou art the Queen of May; Our garlands wear about thy hair,     And they will ne'er decay. The Oratory. 1850.  http://www.newmanreader.org/works/verses/verse161.html