 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
113
LXX. REFUGIUM PECCATORUM.
Say, who are those that beat with brands
Like bandits on our palace-gate?
That storm our keep like rebel-bands?
That come like Judgment or like Fate?
Like bandits on our palace-gate?
That storm our keep like rebel-bands?
That come like Judgment or like Fate?
Say, who are those that spurn by night
Our sumptuous floors with brazen shoon
And banquet halls whose latest light
Is lightning, or a dying moon?
Our sumptuous floors with brazen shoon
And banquet halls whose latest light
Is lightning, or a dying moon?
Say, who are those that by our bed
Like giants tower in iron mail;
That press against the prostrate head
Their foot, and wind through heaven the flail?
Like giants tower in iron mail;
That press against the prostrate head
Their foot, and wind through heaven the flail?
The Sins are these! Sin-pasturing Past!
How in thy darkness they have grown
That seemed to die! How we at last
To pigmy size have shrunk, self-known!
How in thy darkness they have grown
That seemed to die! How we at last
To pigmy size have shrunk, self-known!
Help, sinless Mother! Bid Him spare!
He loves us more—that Judge benign—
Than thou. 'Tis He that wills thy prayer:
From Him it comes, that love of thine!
He loves us more—that Judge benign—
Than thou. 'Tis He that wills thy prayer:
From Him it comes, that love of thine!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |