49 
In the rich mead a God of love we trace, 
We feel His bounty in the sun and shower; 
But here His milder glories shun our gaze, 
Lost in the one dread attribute of power. 
I cannot choose but wish thou hadst a fairer bower. 
Yet to the scene thy stately form doth give 
Appropriate grace ; and in thy mountain-hold, 
Like flowers with zephyrs “ at the shut of eve,” 
Thou with the storm hast dallied from of old. 
But stateliness of form and bearing bold 
Are not thy only boast: there dwells in thee 
A soft, sweet spell (if we be rightly told), 
Which waiteth but the touch of harmony, 
To smooth the brow of care, and make e’en sorrow flee. 
Thus be’t with me,—when storms of trouble rise, 
Which all of woman born, alas ! must know, 
Built on a rock, and looking to the skies, 
Like thee undaunted may I meet the blow. 
Not so when call’d to hear of others’ woe: 
Then may soft pity touch some chord within. 
Prompting the tear of sympathy to flow, 
And words of healing, such as gently win 
The mourner’s stricken heart, and pour sweet comfort in. 
E 
