An echo from the hill-top, where, on sweet-scented air,
Arose a psalm prophetic, of gratitude and prayer,
That wafts adown long ages, in whispers soft and low,
The accents of God’s Mother, exulting long ago.
It lends a voice of gladness, to joys of exile years;
It calms the restless spirit, and dries the mourners’ tears.
I fain would sing a sweet new song
Thy loving Heart to greet,
I fain would cull the flowers fair,
And lay them at thy feet.
And of the precious virgin-gold
And shining jewels rare,
Would form a royal diadem,
To grace thy forehead fair.…