“And now they tell me I must quench
This fire eternal;
Must from the blossoming almond wrench
Its flowers vernal.
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
“Now am I come, dear Saints, from far,
To sue for peace:
Nor mother-prayer my way could bar,
Nor wilderness;
“The sun, that cruel archer, shot
Into my brain,—
Thorns, as it were, and nails red-hot,—
Sharp is the pain;
“Yet give me but my Vincen dear:
Then will we duly,
We two, with glad hearts worship here,—
Oh, I say truly!
“Then the dire pain will rend no more
These brows of mine,
And the face bathed in tears before
Will smile and shine.
“My sire mislikes our love; is cold
And cruel often:
’Twere naught to you, fair Saints of gold,
His heart to soften.
“Howe’er so hard the olive grow,
’Tis mollified
By all the winds that alway blow
At Advent-tide.
“The medlar and the service-plum,
So sharp to taste
When gathered, strewn on straw become
A pleasant feast.
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
. . . . . . . . . .
“Oh, what can mean this dazzling light?
The church is riven
O’erhead; the vault with stars is bright.
Can this be heaven?