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;—
Let the storm beats —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 pain'd,
Then knows to pluck away pain's keenest dart;
Or bid love catch it ere its goal be gain'd,
And steal its venom ere it reach his heart.

'T is the soul's food: —the fervid must adore.—
For this the heathen, unsufficed with thought,
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore,
And shrines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.

What bliss for her, ev'n in this world of woe,
Oh! Sire, who mak'st yon orb-strewn arch thy throne;
That sees thee in thy noblest work below
Shine undefaced, adored, and all 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!