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Pale, sad, but calm, she turn'd, and bent the knee, In meekest prayer, Madonna fair, to thee. Where might the maiden's soul, thus crush'd and riven, Turn from its mortal darkness, but to Heaven? It is in vain to say that love is not The life and colour of a woman's lot. It is her strength; for what, like love's caress, Will guard and guide her own weak tenderness? It is her pride, fleeting and false the while, To see her master suing for her smile. Calls it not all her best affections forth,— Pure faith, devotedness, whose fruitless worth Is all too little felt? Oh! man has power Of head and hand,—heart is a woman's dower.