Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, 
He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, 
And brings their crystal cadence back once more 
To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land 
Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band 
Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore 
Of heroes and the men that long before 
Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned. 

Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go 
For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray -- 
For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; 
And still does art's imperial vista show, 
On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, 
Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.