One silver star with evening's twilight strove;
Mid the dark pines, which base and summit hide,
A lone lamp glimmered on the mountain-side,
As 'twere a star reflected from above;
The Chapel of the Virgin—cold in love,
And proud of heart, forbear ye to deride;
Judge not his conscience, nor a brother chide,
Though to yourselves a stumbling-block it prove.
On this pure spot, its shrine with offerings hung,
Its rock by knees of suppliant pilgrims worn,
Intruding—dare I, prayerless, hence depart?
‘Hail, Virgin-Mother, highly Blessed’: my tongue
Repeats the salutation, while my heart
Bows down in worship to the Virgin-born.