To a Lady

My christmas gifts were few: to one A fan, to keep love’s flame alive, Since even to the constant sun Twilight and setting must arrive; And to another—she who sent That splendid toy, an empty purse— I gave, though not for satire meant, An emptier thing—a scrap of verse; For thee I chose Diana’s head, Graved by a cunning hand in Rome, To whose dim shop my feet were led By sweet remembrances of home. ’T was with a kind of pagan feeling That I my little treasure bought,— My mood I care not for concealing,— “Great is Diana!” was my thought. Methought, howe’er we change our creeds, Whether to Jove or God we bend, By various paths religion leads All spirits to a single end. The goddess of the woods and fields, The healthful huntress, undefiled, Now with her fabled brother yields To sinless Mary and her Child. But chastity and truth remain Still the same virtues as of yore, Whether we kneel in Christian fane Or old mythologies adore. What though the symbol were a lie,— Since the ripe world hath wiser grown,— If any goodness grew thereby, I will not scorn it for mine own. So I selected Dian’s head From out the artist’s glittering show; And this shall be my gift, I said, To one that bears the silver bow; To her whose quiet life has been The mirror of as calm a heart, Above temptation from the din Of cities, and the pomp of art; Who still hath spent her active days Cloistered amid her happy hills, Not ignorant of worldly ways, But loving more the woods and rills. And thou art she to whom I give This image of the virgin queen, Praying that thou, like her, mayst live Thrice blest! in being seldom seen.