What palace-temple of the mystic East Bequeathed this title to thy Litany? What wide courts jubilant with minstrelsy, What tower-chambers whence the weary priest Might watch the still sky when the psalms had ceased -- Watch the still spires of fretted ivory, And pass to God in lonely ecstasy, And with the Angels hold sublimer feast? Mary, within thy courts all nations meet To praise the King whose citadel thou art And temple, and the altar is thy heart, And thy white soul his chosen mercy-seat; And by thy stair we shall find strength to part With earth for heaven, and climb, and reach God's feet. |