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“Mother of sorrows! many a heart 
Half broken by despair 
Has laid its burden by the Cross 
And found a Mother there.” 
—Adelaide Anne Procter. 
“Beautiful Virgin! clothed with the sun, 
Crown d with the stars, who so the Eternal Sun 
Well pleasedst that in thine His light He hid; 
Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee, 
And—feeble to commence without thy aid— 
Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love.” 
— Petrarch. 
“Thou Star above the storm, 
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror! 
Thou Harmony of Mature’s art! Thou Mirror! 
In whom, as in the splendor of the sun, 
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on.” 
— Shelley. 
And Dante, the king of Italian poets, addresses our spotless and 
purest of Virgins thus: 
“Thou Virgin-Mother, daughter of Thy Son, 
Humble and high beyond all other creature. 
The limit fixed of the Eternal Counsel, 
Thou art the one who such nobility 
To human nature gave, that its Creator 
Hid not disdain to make himself its creature. 
Within Thy womb rekindled was the love, 
By heat of which in the eternal peace 
After such wise this flower has germinated. 
Here unto us Thou art a noonday torch 
Of charity, and below there among mortals 
Thou art the living fountain-head of hope. 
Lady, Thou art so great, and so prevailing. 
That he who wishes grace, nor runs to Thee, 
