89. Saint Vincent of Paul

O blessed Father! sent by God,
His mercy to dispense.
Thy hand is out o'er all the earth,
Like God's own providence.

There is no grief nor care of men.
Thou dost not own for thine,
No broken heart thou dost not fill
With mercy's oil and wine.

Thy miracles are works of love;
Thy greatest is to make
Room in a day for toils that weeks
In other men would take.

All cries of suffering through the earth
Upon thy mercy call,
As though thou wert, like God Himself,
A Father unto all,

Dear Saint! not in the wilderness
Thy fragrant virtues bloom,
But in the city's crowded haunts,
The alley's cheerless gloom.

Where hunger hid itself to die,
Where guilt in darkness dwelt.
Thy pleasant sunshine came by stealth,
Thy hand and heart were felt.

All industries of love wert thou.
So thoughtful yet so quick, —
The angel of the shame-faced poor.
God's shadow on the sick.

Son wert thou to the childless old,
The lonesome widow's stay,
The f^ladness of the orphan groups
Out in the streets at play.

Yet not to towns didst thou confine
The gifts thy mercy gave, —
The Gospel to the villager,
His freedom to the slave.

So for the sake of timid souls,
And love of winning ways,
Thou didst against hard-hearted schools
Thy gentle protest raise.

For charity anointed thee
O'er want and woe, and pain;
And she hath crowned thee emperor
Of all her wide domain.

Vincent! like Mother Mary, thou
Art no one's patron saint;
Eyes to the blind, health to the sick.
And life to those who faint.

Of body and of soul alike
Thou art physician wise,
And full of joy as if thou wert
Eaphael in mortal guise.

The poor thou savest by such charms
As hardest hearts can move,
The rich by teaching them to do
The saving works of love.

Saint of wide-open arms, and heaii;
Capacious as a sea.
In dead of night a thousand lips
Are sweetly blessing thee, —

In orphanage, in hospital,
The sick on garret bed,
The dying, and the desolate
Who w^eep beside the dead.

Thou seem'st to have a thousand hands,
And in each hand a heart;
And all the hearts a precious balm
Like dew from God impart.

While love so overwhelmed thy days
With toils beyond cojiipare,
Thy life mid all thy countless works
Was one unbroken prayer,

'Twas prayer that multiplied thy hands,
Prayer was thy power to bless;
'Twas prayer that made thy time for thee,
'Twas prayer was thy success.

So thou belongest unto all.
And all belong to thee;
And we in him Thy pity praise,
Most Holy Trinity I

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