Act 2 — POEMS

When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call:—if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train'd in Nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbor! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning?

Alone, obscure, without a friend, A cheerless, solitary thing, Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out? What offering can the stranger bring Of social scenes, home-bred delights, That him in aught compensate may For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, For loves and friendships far away? In brief oblivion to forego Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be awhile with me content To stay, a kindly loiterer, here: For this a gleam of random joy Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek; And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart, I feel the thanks I cannot speak. Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays, And sweet the charm of matin bird; 'Twas long since these estrangèd ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds In memory's ear in after-time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For, when the transient charm is fled, And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless, solitude When I return, as heretofore; Long, long, within my aching heart The grateful sense shall cherish'd be; I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

Three young maids in friendship met; Mary, Martha, Margaret. Margaret was tall and fair, Martha shorter by a hair; If the first excell'd in feature, Th' other's grace and ease were greater; Mary, though to rival loth, In their best gifts equall'd both. They a due proportion kept; Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept; Margaret joy'd when any good She of Martha understood; And in sympathy for either Mary was outdone by neither. Thus far, for a happy space, All three ran an equal race, A most constant friendship proving, Equally beloved and loving; All their wishes, joys, the same; Sisters only not in name. Fortune upon each one smiled, As upon a fav'rite child; Well to do and well to see Were the parents of all three; Till on Martha's father crosses Brought a flood of worldly losses, And his fortunes rich and great Changed at once to low estate: Under which o'erwhelming blow Martha's mother was laid low; She a hapless orphan left, Of maternal care bereft, Trouble following trouble fast, Lay in a sick-bed at last. In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction, That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend. Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Was her gentle Mary found, With a love that knew no bound; And the solace she imparted Saved her dying broken-hearted. In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixèd springs. That which had to Martha proved A sweet consolation, moved Different feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret. She, whose love was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation, Fewer visits forced to pay her; When no other cause did stay her; And her Mary living nearer, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Martha's heart should steal away. That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer. From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined. All her cheerful spirits flew, Fast as Martha's gather'd new; And her sickness waxèd sore, Just when Martha felt no more. Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Changed her measures with the season; Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, Went where she was wanted more; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret. Mary living 'twixt the two, From her home could oft'ner go, Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be. Truth explain'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician. Soon her visits had the effect; All that Margaret did suspect, From her fancy vanish'd clean; She was soon what she had been, And the color she did lack To her faded cheek came back. Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal. Martha, who the frequent visit Now had lost, and sore did miss it, With impatience waxèd cross, Counted Margaret's gain her loss: All that Mary did confer On her friend, thought due to her. In her girlish bosom rise Little foolish jealousies, Which into such rancor wrought, She one day for Margaret sought; Finding her by chance alone, She began, with reasons shown, To insinuate a fear Whether Mary was sincere; Wish'd that Margaret would take heed Whence her actions did proceed. For herself, she'd long been minded Not with outsides to be blinded; All that pity and compassion, She believed was affectation; In her heart she doubted whether Mary cared a pin for either. She could keep whole weeks at distance, And not know of their existence, While all things remain'd the same; But, when some misfortune came, Then she made a great parade Of her sympathy and aid,— Not that she did really grieve, It was only make-believe, And she cared for nothing, so She might her fine feelings show, And get credit, on her part, For a soft and tender heart. With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was preparèd for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off. See how good turns are rewarded! She of both is now discarded, Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate, All their comfort, and their stay— Now of both is cast away. But the league her presence cherish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd; She, that was a link to either, To keep them and it together, Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder;— Some civilities were kept, But the heart of friendship slept; Love with hollow forms was fed, But the life of love lay dead:— A cold intercourse they held, After Mary was expell'd. Two long years did intervene Since they'd either of them seen, Or, by letter, any word Of their old companion heard,— When, upon a day once walking, Of indifferent matters talking, They a female figure met; Martha said to Margaret, "That young maid in face does carry A resemblance strong of Mary." Margaret, at nearer sight, Own'd her observation right; But they did not far proceed Ere they knew 'twas she indeed. She—but, ah I how changed they view her From that person which they knew her! Her fine face disease had scarr'd, And its matchless beauty marr'd:— But enough was left to trace Mary's sweetness—Mary's grace. When her eye did first behold them, How they blush'd!—but, when she told them, How on a sick-bed she lay Months, while they had kept away, And had no inquiries made If she were alive or dead;— How, for want of a true friend, She was brought near to her end, And was like so to have died, With no friend at her bedside;— How the constant irritation, Caused by fruitless expectation Of their coming, had extended The illness, when she might have mended,— Then, O then, how did reflection Come on them with recollection! All that she had done for them, How it did their fault condemn! But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eased them of their shame; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand; Bound them both with promise fast. Not to speak of troubles past; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they owed her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary.

Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sunbeams play; Though they're fleeting, and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they. In thy channel, in thy channel, Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed, and unhearsed, Lies young Edward's corse: his bones Ever whitening, ever whitening, As thy waves against them dash; What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case; What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy'd, it now does grace.

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces,— How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I've paced in vain: Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty Hath been to glory in his pain. High-born Helen, proudly telling Stories of thy cold disdain; I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain. These twenty years I've lived on tears, Dwelling forever on a frown; On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread; I perish now you kind are grown. Can I, who loved my beloved But for the scorn "was in her eye," Can I be moved for my beloved, When she "returns me sigh for sigh?" In stately pride, by my bedside, High-born Helen's portrait's hung; Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung. To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her— Helen, grown old, no longer cold, Said, "You to all men I prefer."

I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady pathways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight—desolate and sad. The place was such, that whoso enter'd in, Disrobèd was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world's first innocence was brought; Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. A most strange calm stole o'er my soothèd sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight, Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair. And eke with painful fingers she inwove Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn— "The willow garland, that was for her love, And these her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well. To whom when I addrest myself to speak, She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled To the dark covert of that woody shade, And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid. Revolving in my mind what this should mean, And why that lovely lady plainèd so; Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go, I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound. "Psyche am I, who love to dwell In these brown shades, this woody dell, Where never busy mortal came, Till now, to pry upon my shame. "At thy feet what dost thou see The waters of repentance be, Which, night and day, I must augment With tears, like a true penitent, "If haply so my day of grace Be not yet past; and this lone place, O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence All thoughts but grief and penitence." "Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid! And wherefore in this barren shade Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed? Can thing so fair repentance need?" "O! I have done a deed of shame, And tainted is my virgin fame, And stain'd the beauteous maiden white In which my bridal robes were dight." "And who the promised spouse? declare: And what those bridal garments were." "Severe and saintly righteousness Composed the clear white bridal dress; JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King, Bought with his blood the marriage ring. "A wretched sinful creature, I Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie, Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart, And play'd the foolish wanton's part. Soon to these murky shades I came, To hide from the sun's light my shame. And still I haunt this woody dell, And bathe me in that healing well, Whose waters clear have influence From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse; And, night and day, I them augment, With tears, like a true penitent, Until, due expiation made, And fit atonement fully paid, The Lord and Bridegroom me present, Where in sweet strains of high consent, God's throne before, the Seraphim Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn." "Now Christ restore thee soon"—I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

CHILD O Lady, lay your costly robes aside. No longer may you glory in your pride. MOTHER Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear? This day I am to be a bride, you know, Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago? CHILD O mother, lay your costly robes aside, For you may never be another's bride. That line I learn'd not in the old sad song. MOTHER I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy, For thou shalt be a second father's joy. CHILD. One father fondled me upon his knee. One father is enough, alone, for me.

On a bank with roses shaded, Whose sweet scent the violets aided, Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) While o'erhead six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o' gold, And two more did music keep, Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana, who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samarchand, While the noontide fervor beam'd, Mused himself to sleep, and dream'd. Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet soothed his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers, To express a princess' slumbers.— Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The Great Cham and Prester John,— Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy— What he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write of— But his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed, Made a virtue out of need, And, his labors wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of.

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold; In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold: There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire. In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, They have store of good venison, with old canary wine, With singing and music to heighten the cheer; Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare. In a costly palace Youth is still carest By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest; In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails: Does Age begin to prattle?—no man heark'neth to his tales. In a costly palace if the child with a pin Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in; In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish. In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust; In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust, Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do, Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too. In a costly palace Youth his temples hides With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides; In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air. In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride, To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side, That none to do them injury may have pretence; Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

By myself walking, To myself talking, When as I ruminate On my untoward fate, Scarcely seem I Alone sufficiently, Black thoughts continually Crowding my privacy; They come unbidden, Like foes at a wedding, Thrusting their faces In better guests' places, Peevish and malecontent, Clownish, impertinent, Dashing the merriment: So in like fashions Dim cogitations Follow and haunt me, Striving to daunt me, In my heart festering, In my ears whispering, "Thy friends are treacherous, Thy foes are dangerous, Thy dreams ominous." Fierce Anthropophagi, Spectra, Diaboli, What scared St. Anthony, Hobgoblins, Lemures, Dreams of Antipodes, Night-riding Incubi, Troubling the fantasy, All dire illusions Causing confusions; Figments heretical, Scruples fantastical, Doubts diabolical; Abaddon vexeth me, Mahu perplexeth me, Lucifer teareth me—— Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici.

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us. Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant; only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent. Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite—— Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee: None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not. Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too,'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

Model of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear: In thy unfaltering visage well Picturing forth the son of TELL, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood; Guileless traitor, rebel mild, Convict unconscious, culprit child! Gates that close with iron roar Have been to thee thy nursery door; Chains that chink in cheerless cells Have been thy rattles and thy bells; Walls contrived for giant sin Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black Guilt Her discordant house hath built, And fill'd it with her monstrous brood— Sights, by thee not understood— Sights of fear, and of distress, That pass a harmless infant's guess But the clouds, that overcast Thy young morning, may not last; Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour That yields thee up to Nature's power: Nature, that so late doth greet thee, Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee. She shall recompense with cost For every lesson thou hast lost. Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1] Thou shalt take thy airy fill Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning. 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, Hardly less a lamb than they. Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound Shall be the horizon skirting round: And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers, To make amends for wintry hours, The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, Shall from thy tender brow efface Each vestige of untimely care, That sour restraint had graven there; And on thy every look impress A more excelling childishness. So shall be thy days beguiled, THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.

The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, And ever the forest maketh a moan: Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting, Thus by herself she singeth alone, Weeping right plenteously. "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, In this world plainly all seemeth amiss: To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, Living right lovingly."

David and his three captains bold Kept ambush once within a hold. It was in Adullam's cave, Nigh which no water they could have, Nor spring, nor running brook was near To quench the thirst that parch'd them there. Then David, king of Israël, Straight bethought him of a well, Which stood beside the city gate, At Bethlem; where, before his state Of kingly dignity, he had Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; But now his fierce Philistine foe Encamp'd before it he does know. Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, Those three bold captains he addrest; And wish'd that one to him would bring Some water from his native spring. His valiant captains instantly To execute his will did fly. The mighty Three the ranks broke through Of armed foes, and water drew For David, their beloved king, At his own sweet native spring. Back through their arm'd foes they haste, With the hard-earn'd treasure graced. But when the good king David found What they had done, he on the ground The water pour'd ... "Because," said he, "That it was at the jeopardy Of your three lives this thing ye did, That I should drink it, God forbid."

Once on a charger there was laid, And brought before a royal maid, As price of attitude and grace, A guiltless head, a holy face. It was on Herod's natal day, Who o'er Judea's land held sway. He married his own brother's wife, Wicked Herodias. She the life Of John the Baptist long had sought, Because he openly had taught That she a life unlawful led, Having her husband's brother wed. This was he, that saintly John, Who in the wilderness alone Abiding, did for clothing wear A garment made of camel's hair; Honey and locusts were his food, And he was most severely good. He preachèd penitence and tears, And waking first the sinner's fears, Prepared a path, made smooth a way, For his diviner Master's day. Herod kept in princely state His birthday. On his throne he sate, After the feast, beholding her Who danced with grace peculiar; Fair Salome, who did excel All in that land for dancing well. The feastful monarch's heart was fired, And whatsoe'er thing she desired, Though half his kingdom it should be, He in his pleasure swore that he Would give the graceful Salome. The damsel was Herodias' daughter: She to the queen hastes, and besought her To teach her what great gift to name. Instructed by Herodias, came The damsel back: to Herod said, "Give me John the Baptist's head; And in a charger let it be Hither straightway brought to me." Herod her suit would fain deny, But for his oath's sake must comply. When painters would by art express Beauty in unloveliness, Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee, They fittest subject take to be. They give thy form and features grace; But ever in thy beauteous face They show a steadfast cruel gaze, An eye unpitying; and amaze In all beholders deep they mark, That thou betrayest not one spark Of feeling for the ruthless deed, That did thy praiseful dance succeed. For on the head they make you look, As if a sullen joy you took, A cruel triumph, wicked pride, That for your sport a saint had died.

The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears, To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears, "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead." Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed. She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught. "I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree, My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head, And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead, This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? Come, fair and pretty, tell to me, Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be. Thou pretty art and fair, But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare. No need for Blanch her history to tell; Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.

While young John runs to greet The greater Infant's feet, The Mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration, Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration; Nor knows as yet the full event Of those so low beginnings, From whence we date our winnings, But wonders at the intent Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant. But at her side An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition, A glory, an amenity, Passing the dark condition Of blind humanity, As if he surely knew All the blest wonder should ensue, Or he had lately left the upper sphere, And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

Maternal lady with the virgin grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.