Break up, strong Earth, thy stony floors, And snatch to penal caverns dun That Dragon from the pit that wars Against the woman and her Son! {122} XXXI. No ray of all their silken sheen The leaves first fledged have lost as yet Unfaded, near the advancing queen Of flowers, abides the violet. The rose succeeds--her month is come:-- The flower with sacred passion red: She sings the praise of martyrdom, And Him for whom His martyrs bled. The perfect work of May is done: Hard by a new perfection waits:-- The twain, a sister and a nun, A moment parley at the grates. The whiter Spirit turns in peace To hide her in the cloistral shade:-- 'Tis time that you should also cease, Slight carols in her honour made. {123} EPILOGUE. {124} {125} _Epilogue_ Regent of Change, thou waning Moon, Whom they, the sons of night, adore, Her feet are on thee! Late or soon Heap up upon the expectant shore The tides of Man's Intelligence; Or backward to the blackening deep Remit them: Knowledge won from Sense But sleeps to wake, and wakes to sleep. Where are the hands that reared on high Heaven-threat'ning Babel? where the might Of them, that giant progeny, The Deluge dealt with? Lost in night. The child who knows his creed doth stretch A sceptred hand o'er Space, and hold The end of all those threads that catch In wisdom's net the starry fold. The Sabbath comes: the work-days six Of Time go by; meantime the key, O salutary crucifix, Of all the worlds, we clasp in thee. {126} Truth deeplier felt by none than him [Footnote 9] Who at the Alban mountain's foot, Wandering no more in shadows dim, Lay down, a lamb-like offering mute. [Footnote 9: Robert Isaak Wilberforce.] His mighty lore found rest at last In Faith, and woke in God. Ah, Friend! When life which is not Life is past, Pray that like thine may be my end. Thy fair large front; thine eyes' grave blue; Thine English ways so staid and plain;-- Through native rosemaries and rue Memory creeps back to thee again. Beside thy dying bed were writ Some snatches of these random rhymes; Weak Song, how happy if with it Thy name should blend in after times. Rome, April 27, 1857. London: Printed by Spottiswoode & Co. New-street Square. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of May Carols, by Aubrey De Vere