Vi

"Dark sin, the deadly foe of love, All bowers of bliss thou shalt infest, Implanting thorns the flowers above, And one black feather in the breast Of purest dove.

"Almighty Father, once our friend, And ready even now to love us. Thy pitying gaze upon us bend, And through the tempest-clouds above us Thine arm extend.

"That so thy children may begin In lieu of bliss, to earn content, And find that sinful Eve was meant Not only for a sin."

Awhile she ceased; for memory's flow Had drowned the utterance of woe; Until a young hind crossed the lawn, And fondly trotted forth her fawn, Whose frolics of delight made Eve, As in a weeping vision, grieve.