Mary! these fruits of suffering and of toils,
And racking cares through fourteen weeks of woe,
I’d prize far higher than the reeking spoils
Of all the nations laid by Cæsar low,
When he, the victor in Rome’s civil broils,
Sate, like the Jove he worshipped, o’er a world
Whose crowns were offered, and whose incense curled.
“And there is cause, I trow.—Who cannot see
That a dark cloud o’er our New England lowers?