  NO round boy-satyr, racing from the mere, Shakes on the mountain-lawn his dripping head This many a May, your sister being dead, Ye Christian folk! your sister great and dear. To breathe her name, to think how sad-sincere Was all her searching, straying, dreaming, dread, How of her natural night was Plato bred, A star to keep the ways of honor clear, Who will not sigh for her? who can forget Not only unto campÈd Israel, Nor martyr-maids that as a bridegroom met The Roman lion’s roar, salvation fell? To Him be most of praise that He is yet Your God thro’ gods not inaccessible. Divider
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