My gift went freighted with a hope,—
Slight bark upon a doubtful sea!
Yet, under convoy of the Pope,
Successful may the venture be;
For thus good Pius whispered me,
“Mi fili, Benedicite!”

His blessing now I will transfer
To thee, although I hardly know
What Latin form appropriate were.
“Cor meum!”—shall I call thee so?
No, let the learned language be
But, sweetheart, Benedicite!

Your cardinals are blooming yet,
Pride of the brook! the meadow's gem!
So, ere his sun be wholly set,
I send, in due return for them,
The Pope—hark, love, he says to thee,
“My daughter, Benedicite!”

Oh, take his blessing, then,—for ne'er
Did evil come from holy touch;
A righteous man's effectual prayer,
As the Saint says, availeth much;
So, for this once, a Papist be,
Nor scorn his Benedicite!