In myriad manners are thy praises told:
The suns the circles of their course complete,
And ever hear some tongue thy name repeat;
The stars, that follow where those orbs have rolled,
Know all the lands and climes thy clients hold;
The spring's first daisies blossom at thy feet;
For thee the summer winds are bland and sweet,
And thine its beauty as the year grows old:

And yet perchance, of all the forms and ways
Wherein thy children, wheresoe'er they be,
Delight to voice the volumes of the praise,
Incomparable Queen, they render thee,
None glorifies thee more than his who pays
His orisons upon thy Rosary.