Volume 9 — A Mother's Prayer.

The regent of a goodly realm, A sovereign wise and fair, Gazed fondly on her youthful son, And breathed her earnest prayer; The one wish of her loving heart, Her ceaseless, solemn thought, Sole boon her love had craved for him, The only prize she sought. Was it new conquests? blood-bought gems To deck his kingly hand? Fair realms by cruel triumphs wed Unto his rightful land? Rich trappings? robes of royal state? A fawning courtier throng? Or minstrels' ringing lays, to pour The flatteries of song? Nay, nay, no earthly leaven base, No worldly dross could cling Unto that pure, maternal prayer For France's youthful king. 'My precious son! more dear than life, More prized than aught on earth, In all this false and fleeting world My only gift of worth! "Oh! loved and treasured as thou art, Far rather would I weep Above the bier where thou wert laid In thy last, dreamless sleep, Than live to know this form of thine Held, foully shrined within, A tarnished gem, a soul defiled, By e'en one mortal sin.." Well answered was that mother's prayer: No foul, polluting taint E'er marred the white and shining soul Of France's royal saint. His pure baptismal robe of grace Unstained through life he wore; The lily sceptre of the just King Louis brightly bore. O Christian matron! in thy heart This lesson fair enshrine; And let the blest, heroic prayer Of holy Blanche be thine. For what are all the gifts of earth, The charms of form and face, If the immortal soul hath lost Its bright, baptismal grace? Ay! what avails the wealth of worlds, If, lured by syren vice, God's heir hath sold his birthright fair, His only "pearl of price"? In vain may proud ambition grasp Vast realms to tyrants given, If from his guilty hand hath passed The heritage of heaven.