Hopes that it will show itself beholden to thee: because of the very keys that thou bearest,
Its bondsmen shall call thee their jailer, and shall hate thee; only when
A worthier humanity renders it softer, when the world
Gazes forth, unwaveringly discerns and verily traces
Heavenly order on earth, then only shall they acknowledge thee
And ever extol thee as key-bearer of heaven. But for now,
Only thy young generation together about the tomb
Of fallen biases are linked in a single chain
And with a tumult, whereby the pulsing spirit of time
Thunderingly heralds the march of humanity, will fashion a psalm
Of praise unto thee, and with this melody already
The world on all four sides is re-echoing.
THE DESERTED SHRINE.
Christ upon His cross lies in the ancient shrine.
Down His riven limbs blood leaves its clotted trace;
Dead His eyes and pale and lulled, Death's very sign;
Welded silver weaves a halo o'er His face.
