The widow from fire, and the child from the flood;
For mercy's her impulse, her policy steady
Opposes the creed-thralls whose chrism is blood.
And now the appeal of the Child-Widow reaches
The ears ever open to misery's plaint.
She thinks—for the sway of long centuries teaches
That zeal should not hasten, and patience not faint.
The child kneeling there at her skirts is the creature
Of tyrannous ages of creed and of caste;
She bears, helpless prey of the priest, on each feature.