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Back to the home, which wanting them,
    Seems like a home no more.

Madonna, keep the cold north wind
    Amid his native seas,
So that no withering blight come down
    Upon our olive trees.

And bid the sunshine glad our hills,
    The dew rejoice our vines,
And bid the healthful sea-breeze sweep
    In music through the pines.

Pray for us, that our hearts and homes
    Be kept in fear and love;
Love for all things around our path,
    And fear for those above.

Thy soft blue eyes are filled with tears,
    Oh! let them wash away
The soil of our unworthiness,—
    Pray for us, Mother, pray!

We know how vain the fleeting flowers,
    Around thine altar hung;
We know how humble is the hymn
    Before thine image sung.

But wilt thou not accept the wreath,
    And sanctify the lay;
We trust to thee, our hopes and fears,—
    Pray for us, Mother, pray!