IV.
Quaerens me, sedisti lassa;
Redemisti, crucem passa.
O mater dolorosa! with what pain
Thy feet have upward trod the steep incline
Which leads to all things good! that heart of thine—
What swords have pierc'd it through, whilst not in vain
Thy toil was spent to nurture, teach, and train
Hero and sage, and form that thing divine,
The Woman as we know her—to refine
The coarse, and make our rugged pathway plain.
Wearied and faint, thou yet with faith sublime
Hast labour'd on, and held thy suffering light
In contemplation of a better time.
How can we such long martyrdom requite?
May heart, brain, hand thy duteous servants be,
And love, thought, life, be consecrate to Thee!
