On The Morning Of Christ's Nativity Perhaps

Fate Shall Yield To Fickle Chance, And Chaos Judge The Strife.

Smiles From Reason Flow, To Brute Deny'd, And Are Of Love The Food.

Nothing Is Here For Tears, Nothing To Wail Or Knock The Breast, No Weakness, No Contempt, Dispraise, Or Blame,-nothing But Well And Fair, And What May Quiet Us In A Death So Noble.

O When Meet Now Such Pairs, In Love And Mutual Honour Joined?

The Martyrs Shook The Powers Of Darkness With The Irresistible Power Of Weakness.