Had e’er profaned her sleep, and made her blush at dawn.
With flowers she decked the virgin mother’s shrine,
Nor guessed a wonder made that name divine.
The very love, which lent her looks such fire,
Ne’er raised one blameful thought, nor loose desire;
Like streams of gold, which in alembic roll,
The flames she suffered but refined her soul;
Made it more free from stain, more light from dross,
With brighter lustre, and with softer gloss.
That, which she bore her bridegroom, well might claim