The Friars too, the zealous band |
| By Dominic or Francis led, |
| They gather, and they take their stand |
| Where foes are fierce, or friends have
fled. |
And then the unwearied Company, |
| Which bears the Name of Sacred might, |
| The Knights of Jesus, they defy |
| The fiend,—full eager for the fight. |
Yet there is one I more affect |
| Than Jesuit, Hermit, Monk, or Friar, |
| 'Tis an old man of sweet aspèct, |
| I love him more, I more admire. {297} |
I know him by his head of snow, |
| His ready smile, his keen full eye, |
| His words which kindle as they flow, |
| Save he be rapt in ecstasy. |
He lifts his hands, there issues forth |
| A fragrance virginal and rare, |
| And now he ventures to our North, |
| Where hearts are frozen as the air. |
He comes, by grace of his address, |
| By the sweet music of his face, |
| And his low tones of tenderness, |
| To melt a noble, stubborn race. |
O sainted Philip, Father dear, |
| Look on thy little ones, that we |
| Thy loveliness may copy here, |
| And in the eternal Kingdom see. |
The Oratory.
1850. |