As the mute nightingale in closest groves Lies hid at noon, but when days piercing eye Is locked in night, with full heart beating high Pours her plain song, over the light she loves; So, Virgin Ever-pure and Ever-blest, Moon of religion, from whose radiant face Reflected streams the light of heavenly grace On broken hearts, by contrite thoughts oppressed; So, Mary, they who justly feel the weight Of Heavens offended Majesty, implore Thy reconciling aid with suppliant knee; Of sinful man, O sinless Advocate, To thee they turn, nor Him they less adore; 'Tis still His light they love, lest dreadful seen in thee. |