1

Who breathes to thee the holiest prayer,
O Love! is ever least thy care.
Alas! I may not ask thee why 'tis so . .
Because a fiery scroll I see
Hung at the throne of Destiny,
Reason with Love and register with Woe.

2

Few question thee, for thou art strong
And, laughing loud at right and wrong,
Seizest, and dashest down, the rich, the poor;
Thy scepter's iron studs alike
The meaner and the prouder strike,
And wise and simple fear thee and adore.