How many a time has my pure infant-hand
Yielded your due of pious sacrifice!
For you the first lock fell from off my head
Ere yet I guessed the source of every blessing
That prospers men was held within your hand.
Nor was the virgin ever slow to tend
Your service; rarely sent her altar-flame
A twinned desire toward your lofty seat,
Nay, every wish that threatened rise she strove
To crush in shame and anguish to the depths