This rare Tablet doth include
Poverty with Sanctitude.
Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun,
And yet the work not half is done,
Which must supply from earnings scant
A feeble bed-rid parent’s want.
Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
And Holy hands take up the task;
Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
And do her earthly drudgery.
Sleep, saintly Poor One, sleep, sleep on,
And, waking, find thy labours done.
Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
Her eye hath caught the golden gleams
(Angelic Presence testifying,)
That round her everywhere are flying;
Ostents from which she may presume
That much of Heaven is in the room.
Skirting her own bright hair they run,
And to the Sunny add more Sun:
Now on that aged face they fix,
Streaming from the Crucifix;
The flesh-clogg’d spirit disabusing.
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener bright from Eden’s bower,
Tend with care that Lily Flower;
To its leaves and root infuse
Heaven’s sunshine, Heaven’s dews;
’Tis a type and ’tis a pledge
Of a Crowning Privilege:
Careful as that Lily Flower,
This Maid must keep her precious dower;
Live a Sainted Maid, or die
Martyr to Virginity.
Virtuous Poor Ones, sleep, sleep on,
And, waking, find your labours done.