362
JOAN OF ARC.
Delights and awes the soul, a laurel wreath 900
Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast
The snow-drop hung its head,[1] that seem'd to grow
Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid
Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous
Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er 905
Too bold approached, yet anxious would he read
Her every rising wish, then only pleased
When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd.
Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast
The snow-drop hung its head,[1] that seem'd to grow
Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid
Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous
Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er 905
Too bold approached, yet anxious would he read
Her every rising wish, then only pleased
When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd.
"Glory to thee whose vivifying power
Pervades all Nature's universal frame! 910
Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee,
Parent of all the smiling Charities,
That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers!
Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praise
The awakened Woodlands echo all the day 915
Pervades all Nature's universal frame! 910
Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee,
Parent of all the smiling Charities,
That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers!
Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praise
The awakened Woodlands echo all the day 915
"Their
- ↑ Line 902. "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.
