The earth you say is holy,

Not to be soiled by death,

And a Parsee still should hold divine

What Zoroaster saith.

Ay, and so I will hold it,

But see his pale sweet face,

As pure as the palest flower

Left dead in Spring's embrace.

The sun we worship daily

Shrined it for seven years,

[Pg 76]

Then shall it go to cruel beaks,

There where the sea-wind veers?

No, no, no! tho you send me

A beggar from your door,

You, my lord, whom I honour,

And you, his sisters four,

To whom there have come no children

To make your bosoms feel

How even a thought so full of throe

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