by Venerable John Henry Newman, C.O.
The holy Monks, conceal'd from men,
In midnight choir, or studious cell,
In sultry field, or wintry glen,
The holy Monks, I love them well.
The Friars too, the zealous band
By Dominic or Francis led,
They gather, and they take their stand
Where foes are fierce, or friends have fled.
And then the unwearied Company,
Which bears the Name of Sacred might,
The Knights of Jesus, they defy
The fiend,—full eager for the fight.
Yet there is one I more affect
Than Jesuit, Hermit, Monk, or Friar,
'Tis an old man of sweet aspèct,
I love him more, I more admire.
I know him by his head of snow,
His ready smile, his keen full eye,
His words which kindle as they flow,
Save he be rapt in ecstasy.
He lifts his hands, there issues forth
A fragrance virginal and rare,
And now he ventures to our North,
Where hearts are frozen as the air.
He comes, by grace of his address,
By the sweet music of his face,
And his low tones of tenderness,
To melt a noble, stubborn race.
O sainted Philip, Father dear,
Look on thy little ones, that we
Thy loveliness may copy here,
And in the eternal Kingdom see.