By fast and penance this vile body driven
To thy sweet yoke to yield;
And agonies of death have seized this frame,
Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,
Thou, thou alone my shield.
A bower of roses!—looms so steep and high
The path I strain, to suffer or to die!
“Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!
A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,