And Faith — oh! is not Faith 
Like thee, too, Lily? springing into light, 
Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might, 
Through the storm’s breath? 
Yes, link’d with such high thoughts, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! 
Till something there of its own purity 
And peace be wrought. 
Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed, 
As from a shrine. 
