Which, while their precious freight they softly hold,
Shall guard the imprint in a faithful mould.
If I should fail to forge a silver moon,
I with my art, for thee to tread upon,
Then will I place the writhing beast that hangs
Upon my heart, and tears it with his fangs,
Where thou may'st crush his head, and smile supreme,
O majesty! all potent to redeem.
And all my thoughts, like candles, shalt thou see
before thine altar spread, Star of the Sea!
Starring thine azure roof with points of fire.
With nought hut thee to cherish and admire,
So shall my soul in plaintive fumes arise
Of incense ever to thy pitying eyes.
Last, that indeed a Mary thou may'st be,
And that my love be mixed with cruelty—
O foul voluptuousness! when I have made
Of every deadly sin a deadlier blade,
Torturer filled with pain will I draw near
The target of thy breast, and, sick with fear,