Unerring, unsparing, it sped to its mark,
As the mandate of destiny, certain and dark.
The mail of the warrior it severed in twain,—
The wall of the castle it shivered amain:
No shield could shelter, no prayer could save,
And Love's holy shrine no immunity gave.
A babe in the cradle—its mother bent o'er,—
The arrow is sped,—and that babe is no more!
At the faith-plighting altar, a lovely one bows,—
The gem on her finger,—in Heaven her vows;