(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.)
She holds a lily in her hand,Where long ranks of Angels stand,A silver lily for her wand.
All her hair falls sweeping down;Her hair that is a golden brown,A crown beneath her golden crown.
Blooms a rose-bush at her knee,Good to smell and good to see:It bears a rose for her, for me;
Her rose a blossom richly grown,My rose a bud not fully blown,But sure one day to be mine own.