Thee, May and Mother, I entreat
That, by thine intercession sweet,
From out my mouth a truthful lore
In verses smoothly wrought may pour;
That, from my lips both soft and bright,
As if in glowing gold bedight,
The words proclaimed of old may ring;
To God that gift I needs must bring.


This Mary is our Mother bright,
With honour decked, a Flower of might,
And bloometh like a ruddy rose,
Which by a living fountain grows;
A fragrant Root of lowliness;
A Ray of the Spirit's holiness;
She loves but God and who are good;

FOURTH PART .

B Y distance, absence, Home in view,
Its every charm was heighten'd,
Though Winter, with a silver vest,
Its lordly cliffs had whiten'd.

Now Prudence, who, with precepts blest,
Had Owen's days directed;
To cheer his friends, and gladden home,
Her little hoards collected.

And Memory, too, was all alive,
Her every cell exploring;

THIRD PART .

And sudden on his comrade crew,
Rush'd bands of ruffian sailors;
What once were Britain's generous tars
Were now — degraded jailors.

O! Britain, sure no parent thou,
If thus thy sons are treated;
Thou, that on ocean's proudest car,
By their brave arms art seated!

Repentant, clasp them to thy heart,
With warmth maternal cherish;
Let Power the guilty only grasp,

SECOND PART .

Thus Owen daily kept his flock,
On Marian's summits seated,
And distant saw the passing sails,
By every breeze inflated.

Now saw on Llangoed's fertile shores,
The placid waters waving,
And now beheld, on rocky steeps,
The billowy rollers raving.

A novel wish, in Owen's thoughts,
Intruded now, was growing;
The place they came from, where they went,

Where is the Muse that loves the good,
The plaintive strain to offer;
But to the bright benignant breast
That feels for all that suffer.

'Tis this that prompts her now to bring,
To thee, a noiseless story;
For Fame confines her brazen trump
To deeds of martial glory.

She flies on every breeze that blows,
To spread her loud narration;
Nor seas resist, nor Alps repel,

1. THE FEAR OF LOVE

O could my love devise
A shield for you from envious lips and eyes
That desecrate the sweetness of your days
With tumults of their praise!

O could my love design
A secret, sealed, invulnerable shrine
To hide you, happy and inviolate,
From covetous Time and Fate.

Love, I am drenched with fear
Lest the uncounted avarice of the year
Add to the triumph of all garnered grace
The rapture of your face!

I tremble with despair
Lest the far-journeying winds and sunbeams bear

1. THE SORROW OF LOVE

Why did you turn your face away?
Was it for grief or fear
Your strength would fail or your pride grow weak,
If you touched my hand, if you heard me speak,
After a life-long year?

Why did you turn your face away?
Was it for love or hate?
Or the spell of that wild miraculous hour
That hurled our souls with relentless power
In the eddying fires of fate?

Turn not your face from me, O Love!

1. THE OFFERING

Were beauty mine, beloved, I would bring it
Like a rare blossom to Love's glowing shrine;
Were dear youth mine, beloved, I would fling it
Like a rich pearl into Love's lustrous wine:

Were greatness mine, Beloved, I would offer
Such radiant gifts of glory and of fame,
Like camphor and like curds to pour and proffer
Before Love's bright and sacrificial flame.

But I have naught save my heart's deathless passion
That craves no recompense divinely sweet,

21.

" He hath escap'd, " the King-Priest said.
Then, turn'd he to the lifeless maid.
Nor armlet she, nor anklet wore,
But on her veiny wrist
A clasp of amethyst,
And on her right third finger fair
A relic, which he valu'd more;
A ring of gold-and-silver twist,
And Homer's auburn-silver'd hair.
He took the ring, and from her wrist
The nun its clasp of amethyst,
The mighty spell, by which, men knew,
She could o'ercome, far off, the foe
Who but in thought might work her woe;
And then the darkness-clad withdrew

19.

" With her? This impious wretch! So foul,
And yet so fair? " the King-Priest said;
And, not unmov'd, contemplated
The beauteous corpse. " Her wretched soul
Is now a crow's. Her carrion soon
Shall feed the wolf, beneath the moon
And winking stars. " Scornful, he spoke,
Though pity in his heart awoke;
Then, self-reproach'd, threw back his head,
While blacken'd on his lip of bile
The fiend of his unwilling smile —
And kick'd, with cruel foot, the dead.

20.

Darkens in grief the snowy Nun;