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DEAR Lady! oft I meditate on thee,
DEAR Lady! oft I meditate on thee,
Noblest companion and fit peer of him
Whom envious years, in high prosperity,
Could blemish least, nor aught the lustre dim
Of that fair-fashioned native piety
Embosomed in the soul that smiles on Fate,
And held by him and thee inviolate, —
Fountain of youth, still sparkling o'er the brim.
Then I recall thy salient quick wit,
Its arrowy quiver and its supple bow, —
Huntress of wrong! right well thy arrows hit,
Though from the wound thou see'st the red drops flow:
I much admire that dexterous archery,
And pray that sinners may thy target be.

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