There is a glorious legend
Of the times now passed away,
Of the times when faith was brighter
Than it is in this our day—
When the hearts of men were keener,
For the things that are above—
For the glory of their Master
And the Mother of his Love.
A darksome cloud had risen
O'er the sweet and smiling earth,
And it fell upon the patriarch
And the infant at its birth:
As it hurried o'er the mountain,
As it rushèd through the glen,
It scattered wide its noxious tide
Among the sons of men.
Error's form was stalking boldly
In the light of God's own sun;
It was jibing and rejoicing
For the evil it had done:
It stalked along in triumph,
In the might of fire and sword;
It blighted, with its poisoned breath,
The peasant and his lord.
A holy monk was praying
In his lone and lowly cell;
His eye was resting fondly
On a Form he loved right well:
Mary's Image stood before him,
And his face was beaming bright,
As visions floated round him
In the silence of the night.
He saw the wolf devouring
The shepherd and his sheep;
And his noble breast was panting,
And his eyes were fain to weep:
And the love that burned within him,
For the glory of his King,
Was all too great for human heart,
Too deep for human thing.
He prayed the Virgin-Mother
To raise her mighty arm,
To scatter wide the impious herd,
And shield the flock from harm:
He prayed her, for her glory
And the glory of her Child,
To chase away this hellish foe,
To still this tempest wild.
A gentle light is floating
Around him as he kneels,
And the gleamings of another world
Within his breast he feels.
A Lady stood before him,
And the beauty of her face
Was such as mortal might not claim—
Too pure for human race:
A gentle Infant nestled
On her pure and spotless breast,
And his little arm was round her,
As he close unto her pressed.
And the light of God shone round them,
As they stood in silence there;
As they smiled with loving favour
On the hermit at his prayer.
Then the Lady touched him softly
As he lay in holy fear,
And she bade him rise and gird his loins
And be of right good cheer:
For he should be the warrior,
With neither spear, nor sword,
To scatter wide this impious band,
To rout this hellish horde.
'Twas not by earthly weapon
This work was to be done;
For not by sword, and not by spear,
Are greatest conquests won.
She smiled with heavenly meaning
As a chaplet forth she held;
And the hermit's heart grew lighter
As his weapon he beheld:
And his breast was almost bursting
As she taught him how to tell
The holy beads, whose potent might
Should rout the ranks of hell.
The holy monk has issued
From his lone and lowly cell,
And eager ears are listening
For the story he may tell:
Men see God's mark upon him,
As eagerly he pleads,
And tells them of his wondrous gift,
The Holy Virgin's beads.
Quick through the Church's kingdom
The holy practice spread;
And soon that error's hateful form
Was numbered with the dead.
For it fell away before it,
As the mist before the sun;
And the preacher and his holy beads
The glorious fight soon won.
Still the Church's children ever,
In their hours of grief and pain,
Unto that holy chaplet turn,
Whose virtues still remain:
'Tis the weapon of their warfare;
'Tis their armour in the fight;
And they love it as the ensign
Of their spotless Mother bright.
Of the times now passed away,
Of the times when faith was brighter
Than it is in this our day—
When the hearts of men were keener,
For the things that are above—
For the glory of their Master
And the Mother of his Love.
A darksome cloud had risen
O'er the sweet and smiling earth,
And it fell upon the patriarch
And the infant at its birth:
As it hurried o'er the mountain,
As it rushèd through the glen,
It scattered wide its noxious tide
Among the sons of men.
Error's form was stalking boldly
In the light of God's own sun;
It was jibing and rejoicing
For the evil it had done:
It stalked along in triumph,
In the might of fire and sword;
It blighted, with its poisoned breath,
The peasant and his lord.
A holy monk was praying
In his lone and lowly cell;
His eye was resting fondly
On a Form he loved right well:
Mary's Image stood before him,
And his face was beaming bright,
As visions floated round him
In the silence of the night.
He saw the wolf devouring
The shepherd and his sheep;
And his noble breast was panting,
And his eyes were fain to weep:
And the love that burned within him,
For the glory of his King,
Was all too great for human heart,
Too deep for human thing.
He prayed the Virgin-Mother
To raise her mighty arm,
To scatter wide the impious herd,
And shield the flock from harm:
He prayed her, for her glory
And the glory of her Child,
To chase away this hellish foe,
To still this tempest wild.
A gentle light is floating
Around him as he kneels,
And the gleamings of another world
Within his breast he feels.
A Lady stood before him,
And the beauty of her face
Was such as mortal might not claim—
Too pure for human race:
A gentle Infant nestled
On her pure and spotless breast,
And his little arm was round her,
As he close unto her pressed.
And the light of God shone round them,
As they stood in silence there;
As they smiled with loving favour
On the hermit at his prayer.
Then the Lady touched him softly
As he lay in holy fear,
And she bade him rise and gird his loins
And be of right good cheer:
For he should be the warrior,
With neither spear, nor sword,
To scatter wide this impious band,
To rout this hellish horde.
'Twas not by earthly weapon
This work was to be done;
For not by sword, and not by spear,
Are greatest conquests won.
She smiled with heavenly meaning
As a chaplet forth she held;
And the hermit's heart grew lighter
As his weapon he beheld:
And his breast was almost bursting
As she taught him how to tell
The holy beads, whose potent might
Should rout the ranks of hell.
The holy monk has issued
From his lone and lowly cell,
And eager ears are listening
For the story he may tell:
Men see God's mark upon him,
As eagerly he pleads,
And tells them of his wondrous gift,
The Holy Virgin's beads.
Quick through the Church's kingdom
The holy practice spread;
And soon that error's hateful form
Was numbered with the dead.
For it fell away before it,
As the mist before the sun;
And the preacher and his holy beads
The glorious fight soon won.
Still the Church's children ever,
In their hours of grief and pain,
Unto that holy chaplet turn,
Whose virtues still remain:
'Tis the weapon of their warfare;
'Tis their armour in the fight;
And they love it as the ensign
Of their spotless Mother bright.