And I build in spirit the mystic strain;—
Ah! would to the virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!
Sweet Christabel, it is not well
That a lady, pure as the sunless snow
That lies so soft on the mountain’s brow,
That a maiden of sinless chastity
In childbirth pangs should be doomed to die,
Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!