I

Queen of All Saints, upon this glorious day,
 When, upward gazing to the skies, we sing
 Their virtues who, by toil and conquering,
Have won admittance to the bright array
Of those blest spirits whose it is for aye
 To chant the praises of that mighty King,
 Around whose white throne they stand worshipping,
With what beatitude no tongue can say—
Ill were it if we sang no song to thee,
 Whose spotless life, free from the least attaints
Of all that sordidness and sin which be
 Our common heritage and our complaints,
Won thee, by its surpassing purity,
 The glorious title of the Queen of Saints.

II

Madonna, whom the griefs which were thine own,
 When Simeon's sword transfixed thy tender heart,
 Rendered compassionate, as still thou art,
Of all the sorrows that the world has known;
Lo, with the wailing winds which sigh and moan,
 In these November nights, there seem to start
 Sepulchral sobbings from that realm apart,
Where the departed for their faults atone:
Be merciful, Madonna, then, and lend
 Thy potent intercession to the plea
We make for those who beg us to befriend
 Their hapless helplessness and misery,
That their captivity may sooner end
 In blessèd prayer for us, and praise for thee.