For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot
To meet in quenchless trust. My soul is strong:
Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long.
“A breath of our free heavens and noble sires,
A memory of our old victorious dead—
These mantle me with power; and though their fires
In a frail censer briefly may be shed,
Yet shall they light us onward, side by side—
Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide?
“Cheer, then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set