And held thus in a pagan, shameful thrall,
Must drink their tears till death comes ending all.
«But this thy little child need fear no more,
Who, taken early up to heaven’s door,
Could walk all glad and shining-pure within,
Her soul still innocent of earthly sin.
Doubt not, my son, that all is well with her,
And let not sorrow be thy conqueror.
Reason and self-command are precious still
And yielding all to blighted hope is ill.