‘ ‘ ² Åü¿Â 
127 
Outward, my face and breast have leprous sores ; 
Inward, my filthy blood ;  its poison pours 
Corruption through me.  In the eyes of man 
I am contemned, the haughty one.  God’s fan 
Is eager on my threshing-floor ;  his rod 
Smites no vain stroke.  Oh, how I curse thee, God ! 
What is my aid ?  But yet to Satan’s power 
I lend my utmost vigour for an hour, 
To wrest Thy damned throne from out thy hands ! 
My aid ?  How shall I burst thy bitter bands, 
Strike off thy shackles, from thy fetters break, 
I, whom Thy name appals, whose vitals quake 
At the dim thought of Thee ?  Have mercy, Christ ! 
Who suffered on the cross, who sacrificed 
Thy heaven for three hours.  Ah !  pity me, 
For years, not hours, condemned to agony 
Thrice Thine !  Have pity, hear me, virgin queen, 
Whose pangs of childbirth were seven times more keen 
Than all, since love and memory of joy 
Thou hadst not, but the fear of shame to cloy 
Even the hope of motherhood.  But I, 
Cut off from love and joy ;  its memory 
One black hell of distorted pain ;  my shame 
More horrid than that first unholy flame,