"What bliss for her who lives her little day,
In blest obedience; like to those divine
Who to her loved, her earthly lord, can say
'God is thy law,' most just 'and _thou_ art mine.'
"To every blast she bends in beauty meek--
How can she shrink--his arms her shelter kind?--
And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek
With thoughts befitting his superior mind.
"Who only sorrows when she sees him pained,
Then knows to pluck away pain's fiercest dart;
Or, love arresting, ere its gaol is gained
Steal half its venom ere it reach his heart.
"'Tis the soul's food--the fervid must adore--
For this the heathen, insufficed with thought
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore
Or shines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.
"What bliss for her--e'en on this world of woe
Oh! sire who mak'st yon orb-strown arch thy throne,--
That sees thee, in thy nobles work below,
Shine undefaced!--and calls that work her own!
"This I had hoped: but hope too dear, too great--
Go to thy grave! I feel thee blasted, now--
Give me, fate's sovereign, well to bear the fate
Thy pleasure sends--this, my sole prayer, allow."