His cincture, day and night;
With broider-work and Honiton
Her open sleeves were bright.
But still Hypatia’s self I knew,
And saw, with dreamy wonder,
The form of her whom Cyril slew
(See Kingsley’s novel, yonder)
Some fifteen centuries since, ’tis true,
And half a world asunder.
Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise,