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 MARY, VIRGIN AND MOTHER

Oh, Virgin Joy of all the world art thou, In whose white, fragrant steps the countless throng On souls elect doth follow God with song: Creation's Queen, whose bright and holy brow The multitude of Saints, like stars, endow With changeful splendors, flashing far and strong: The Maid unshadow'd by the primal wrong: God's Lily, chosen in His shrine to bow.

All these thy glories are, and still a grace More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair, Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest. God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face The tender likeness of thine own doth wear. And thou art ours—we trust Him for the rest.

THE WIND ON THE HILLS

Go not to the hills of Erin When the night winds are about; Put up your bar and shutter, And so keep the danger out.

For the good-folk whirl within it, And they pull by the hand, And they push you by the shoulder, Till you move to their command.