Down cold snow-stretches of our bitter time, When windy shams and the rain-mocking sleet
Of Trade have cased us in such icy rime That hearts are scarcely hot enough to beat,
Thy fame, O Lady of the lofty eyes, Doth fall along the age, like as a lane
Of Spring, in whose most generous boundaries Full many a frozen virtue warms again.
To-day I saw the pale much-burdened form Of Charity come limping o'er the line,
And straighten from the bending of the storm And flush with stirrings of new strength divine,
Such influence and sweet gracious impulse came
Out of the beams of thine immortal name!