162 MYSTERIES:
Thy pale feet kiss the daffodils; they roam
By moss-grown springs, and shake the bluebell tips.
Each flower of the deep glade
Has whispered kisses for thy listening lips,
While Eos blushes in the sky, to find
A fairer, queenlier maiden, and as kind
To man and maid, whose eyes are lit by the same
mind.
Thou hast, as Pallas hath, a polished shield,
Whose Gorgon-head is Hatred, and a sword
Sharper than Love’s. Thy wisdom is revealed
To them who love, but thou hast aye abhorred
The children of revenge, to them is sealed
Thy book, so clear to me.
Thy book where seven sins their sceptres wield,
And seven sorrows track them, and one joy
Cancels their infamy ;
Shame and regret are fused to an alloy,
Whose drossy weight sinks down and is consumed,
While o’er the ruddy metal is relumed
A purer flame of peace, with knowledge now per-
fumed.
Thy ways are very bitter. Not one rose
Twines in the crown of thorns thy spouse must
wear;
There is no Lethe for the scoffs, the blows,
Nor find they a Cyrenian anywhere