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230 RELIGIOUS POEMS OF THE PEOPLE Where her healing mantle flows, may I find my hiding, 'Neath the fringes of her robe constantly abiding. Hostile camps upon the plain, sharp swords clashed together, Stricken fleets across the main stressed by wintry weather ; Weary sickness on my heart, sinful thoughts alluring, All the fever of my soul clings to her for curing. She the Maid the careful king of the wide wet world chooses, In her speech forgiveness lies, no suppliant she refuses ; White Star of our troubled sea, on thy name I'm crying, That Christ may draw in His spread net the living and the dying.
