 | Poems |  |
SONNET.
FROM THE SAME.
Our lot hath fallen upon the latter time—The cloudless evening of the Church's day;
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That scarce we need that faith and zeal sublime,
Which, in her pure and persecuted prime,
Taught tender maids and matrons old and grey,
Smiling defiance in death's grim array,
To the proud heights of martyrdom to climb.
Beneath our fig-trees and our vines we dwell
At ease.—What claim then to their bliss have we
Who with the fiercest powers of Earth and Hell
Warr'd, and so won their immortality?
Ask not:—but wage thine own poor warfare well—
E'en as thy striving thy reward shall be.
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