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125
THE SHRIFT.
Come kneel thee now, fair Penitent,
And tell thy sins to me;
Alas! I fear that penance drear
Must set thy spirit free.
Thou hast robbed the rose for the bloom of thy lip,
And its scent for thy silken hair,
Yet thou sittest apart with a happy heart
As if there were nothing to fear.
And tell thy sins to me;
Alas! I fear that penance drear
Must set thy spirit free.
Thou hast robbed the rose for the bloom of thy lip,
And its scent for thy silken hair,
Yet thou sittest apart with a happy heart
As if there were nothing to fear.
Thou hast been by night to the gate of heaven,
Where the angel-harpers throng;
And hast borrowed the sound of their golden strings
To sweeten thine earthly song.
Thou hast marked what beauty and purity
On the seraph-foreheads shine,
And hast stolen the grace of an angel's face,
Most beautiful robber, for thine.
Where the angel-harpers throng;
And hast borrowed the sound of their golden strings
To sweeten thine earthly song.
Thou hast marked what beauty and purity
On the seraph-foreheads shine,
And hast stolen the grace of an angel's face,
Most beautiful robber, for thine.
126
But a darker sin is on thy soul,
A sin of a later day;
Thou must not smile for a weary while
Till that sin be done away.
Lady! thou art a lovely witch;
Thou art read in the witch-song well,
And the spell of thy power binds—ay, at this hour,
Lady! I dare not tell.
A sin of a later day;
Thou must not smile for a weary while
Till that sin be done away.
Lady! thou art a lovely witch;
Thou art read in the witch-song well,
And the spell of thy power binds—ay, at this hour,
Lady! I dare not tell.
Then kiss the rose which thou hast robbed,
Its pardon thou shalt win;
Thy stolen flight to the halls of light
It shall not be a sin.
But if thou wilt ask for the holy shrift
On the sin of thy gramarye,
At morn think twice, and at night think thrice
Of him who thinks ever of thee.
Its pardon thou shalt win;
Thy stolen flight to the halls of light
It shall not be a sin.
But if thou wilt ask for the holy shrift
On the sin of thy gramarye,
At morn think twice, and at night think thrice
Of him who thinks ever of thee.
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